

COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 












































































































































m 

















































































































A Son of Courage 

































Oh, aren't they lovely!” cried Erie. 





A Son of Courage 


By 

Archie P. McKishnie 

W 

Author of Love of the Wild, 
Willow, the Wisp, etc . 



The Reilly & Lee Co. 

Chicago 




Copyright, 1920 
By 

The Reilly & Lee Co. 


All Rights Reserved 


Made in U. 8. A. 


OCT -4 1920 


A Son of Courage 

©CU576701 


To my sister, 

Jean Blewitt, who knew and 
loved its characters this book 
is lovingly dedicated. 

The Author . 



CONTENTS 


CHAPTER PAGE 

1 Billy Wilson’s Strategy 9 

2 A Shower of Fish 29 

3 Appraising the New Teacher 39 

4 The Message Croaker Brought 50 

5 A Wilderness Merchant 58 

6 The Ruse That Failed 67 

7 The Rabbit Foot Charm 77 

8 Luck Rides the Storm 85 

9 Moving the Menagerie 95 

10 In Lost Man’s Swamp 104 

11 Educating the New Boy 115 

12 Old Harry Makes a Find 126 

13 Erie of the Light-House 135 

14 Old Harry Turns a Trick 145 

15 Billy’s Problems Multiply 159 

16 Billy Meets a Divinity 168 

17 The Dread Day Dawns 178 

18 The Mettle of the Breed 188 

19 Croaker Brings a Gift 196 

20 Billy Meets a Lovely Ghost 205 

21 A Day with the Ducks 215 

22 Teacher Johnston Resigns 229 

23 Mr. Hinter Proves a Puzzle 241 

24 Billy to the Rescue 250 

25 Mr. Hinter Makes a Confession 261 

26 A Golden Wedding Gift 273 



A SON OF COURAGE 

CHAPTER I 

BILLY WILSON’S STRATEGY 

Mrs. Wilson lit the coal-oil lamp and placed it in the 
center of the kitchen table; then she turned toward the 
door, her head half bent in a listening attitude. 

A brown water-spaniel waddled from the woodshed into 
the room, four bright-eyed puppies at her heels, and stood 
half in the glow, half in the shadow, short tail ingratiat- 
ingly awag. 

“ Scoot you! ” commanded the woman, and with a wild 
scurry mother dog and puppies turned and fled to the 
friendly darkness of their retreat. 

Mrs. Wilson stood with frowning gaze fastened on the 
door. She was a tall, angular woman of some forty years, 
heavy of features, as she was when occasion demanded it, 
heavy of hand. Tiny fret-lines marred a face which under 
less trying conditions of life might have been winsome, 
but tonight the lips of the generous mouth were tightly 
compressed and the rise and fall of the bosom beneath 
the low cut flannel gown hinted of a volcano that would 
ere long erupt to the confusion of somebody. 

As a quick step sounded outside, she lowered herself 
slowly to a high-backed chair and waited, hands locked 
closely upon her lap. 

The door opened and her husband entered. He cast a 
quick, apprehensive glance at his wife, and the low whistle 
died on his lips as he passed over to the long roller towel 
hanging above the wash-bench and proceeded to dry his 
hands. 


9 


10 


A SON OF COURAGE 


He was a medium sized man, with brown wavy hair and 
a beard which failed to conceal the glad boyishness of a 
face that would never quite be old. The eyes he turned 
upon the woman when she sharply spoke his name were 
blue and tranquil. 

“Yes, Mary? ” he responded gently. 

“ I want ’a tell you that I’m tired of bein’ the slave 
of you an’ your son,” she burst out. “ One of these days 
I’ll be packin’ up and goin’ to my home folks in Nova 
Scotia. ’ ’ 

Wilson averted his face and proceeded to straighten the 
towel on the roller. His action seemed to infuriate the 
woman. 

Her lips tightened. Her hands unclenched and gripped 
the table as she slowly arose. 

“You — ” she commenced, her voice tense with pas- 
sion, “ you — ” she checked herself. Unconsciously one of 
the groping hands had come in contact with the soft leather 
cover of a book which lay on the table. 

It was the family Bible. She had placed it there after 
reading her son Anson his evening chapter. Slowly she 
mastered herself and sank back into her chair. 

Wilson came over and laid a work-hardened hand gently 
on her heaving shoulder. 

“ Mary,” he said, “ what is it? What have I done? ” 

“ Oh,” she cried miserably, “ what haven’t you done, 
Tom Wilson? Didn’t you bring me here to this lonesome 
spot when I was happy with my son, happy an’ con- 
tented? ” 

* ‘ But I told you you ’d like find it some lonesome, Mary, 
you remember? ” 

“Yes, but did you so much as hint at what awful things 
I’d have to live through here? Not you! Did you tell 


BILLY WILSON’S STRATEGY 


11 


me that an old miser ’ud die and his ghost ha’nt this 
neighborhood? Did you tell me that blindness ’ud strike 
one of the best and most useful young men low ? Did you 
tell me,” she ran wildly on, “ that the sweetest girl in the 
world ’ud be dyin’ of a heartbreak? Did you tell me 
anythin’, Tom Wilson, that a woman who was leavin’ her 
own home folks, to work for you and your son, should a’ 
been told? ” 

Wilson sighed. “ How was I to know these things would 
happen, Mary? It’s been hard haulin’, I know, but some- 
day it won’t be so hard. Maybe now, you’d find it easier 
if you didn’t shoulder everybody else’s trouble, like you 
do— ” 

“ Shut right up! ” she flared, “ I’m a Christian woman, 
Tom Wilson. Do you think I could face God on my knees 
if I failed in my duty to the sick as calls fer me? Why, 

I couldn’t sleep if I didn’t do what little I’m able to do 
fer them in trial; I’d hear weak voices acallin’ me, I’d 
see pain-wild eyes watehin’ fer me to come an’ help their 
first-born into the world.” 

4 4 But, Mary, there ’s a doctor at Bridgetown now 
and — ” 

“ Doctors! ” she cried scornfully. “ Little enough they 
know the needs of a woman at such a time. A doctor may 
be all right in his place, but his place ain’t here among 
us woods folk. I tell you now I know my duty an’ I’ll 
do it because they need me.” 

“ We all need you, Mary,” spoke her husband quickly. 

I I Didn ’t I tell you that when I persuaded you to come ? 
I need you; Billy needs you.” 

She looked up at him, tears filming the fire of anger in 
her eyes. 

“ No,” she said in low tense tones, “ your son don’t 


12 


A SON OP COURAGE 


need me. I’m nuthin’ to him. Sometimes I think — I 
think he cares — ’cause I’m longin’ fer it, I guess. But 
somehow he seems to be lookin’ beyond me to someone 
else.” 

Wilson sighed and sank into a chair. 

“ I guess maybe it’s your fancy playin’ pranks on you, 
Mary,” he suggested hesitatingly. “ Two years of livin’ 
in this lonesome spot has kinder got on your nerves. ’ ’ 

“ Nerves! ” she cried indignantly, sitting bolt upright. 
“ Don’t you ’er anybody else dare accuse me of havin’ 
nerves, Tom Wilson. If I wasn’t the most sensible-minded 
person alive I’d be throwin’ fits er goin’ off into gallopin’ 
hysterics every hour, with the things that Willium does 
to scare the life out of a body. ’ ’ 

“ What’s Billy been doin’ now? ” asked Wilson 
anxiously. 

She shivered. “ Nothin’ out ’a the ordinary. What’s 
that limb allars doin’ to scare the daylights clean out a me 
an’ the neighbors? If you’d spend a little more of your 
spare time in the house with your wife an’ less in the 
bam with your precious stock you wouldn’t need to be 
askin’ what he’s been adoin’. But I’ll tell you what he 
did only this evenin’ afore you come home from changin’ 
words with Cobin Keeler. 

‘ ‘ Missus Scraff — you know what a fidgety fly-off- 
the-handle she is, an’ how she suffers from the asthma — 
well, she’d eome over an’ was stayin’ to supper. I sent 
that Willium out on the back ridge to gather some wild 
thimble-berries fer dessert. He comes in just as I had 
the table all set, that wicked old coon he ’s made a pet of at 
his heels an ’ that devil-eyed crow. Croaker, on his shoulder. 
Afore I could get hold of the broom, he put the covered 
pail on the table an’ went out ag’in. The coon follered 


BILLY WILSON’S STRATEGY 


13 


him, but that crow jumped right onto the table an’ grabbed 
a piece of cake. I made a dash at him an’ he flopped 
to Missus Scraff’s shoulder. She was chewin’ a piece of 
slippery-ellum bark fer her asthma, an’ when his claws 
gripped her shoulder she shrieked an’ like to ’a’ choked 
to death on it. 

“ It took me all of half an hour to get her quieted, an’ 
then I made to show her what nice berries we got from 
our back ridge. ‘ Jest hold your apron, Mrs. Scraff, an’ 
I’ll give you a glimpse of what we’re goin’ to top our 
supper off with/ I says, strivin’ to get the poor soul’s 
mind off herself. 

“ She held out her apron, an’ I lefted the lid off the 
pail and pours what’s in it into her lap. 

“ An’ what d’ye ’spose was in that pail, Tom Wilson? 
Four garter snakes and a lizard; that’s what your 
precious son had gone out and gathered fer our dessert. I 
spilled the whole caboodle of ’em into her apron afore I 
noticed, an’ she give one screech an’ fainted dead away. 
While I was busy bringin’ her around, that Willium 
sneaked in an’ gathered them squirmin’ reptiles off the 
floor. I couldn’ do more jest then than look him a promise 
to settle with him later, ’cause I had my hands full as it 
was. I found a pail of berries on the table when I got 
a chance to look about me, an’ I ain’t sayin’ but that boy 
got them pails mixed, but that don’t excuse him none.” 

Wilson, striving to keep his face grave, nodded. “ That’s 
how it’s been, I guess, Mary. He kin no more help pickin' 
up every snake and animal he comes across then he kin 
help breathin’. But he don ’t mean any harm, Billy don ’t. ’ ’ 

“ That’s neither here ner there,” she snapped. “ He 
doesn’t seem to care what harm he does. An’ the hard 
part of it is,” she burst out, “ I can’t take no pleasure in 


14 


A SON OF COURAGE 


whalin' him same as I might if I was his real mother; 1 
jest can't, that's all. He has a way of lookin' at me out 'a 
them big, grey eyes of his'n — " 

The voice choked up and a tear splashed down on the 
hand clenched on her lap. 

Comfortingly her husband's hand covered it from sight, 
as though he sought to achieve by this small token of 
understanding that which he could not hope to achieve 
by mere words. 

She caught her breath quickly and a flush stole up 
beneath the sun and wind stain on her cheeks. There was 
that in the pressure of the hand on hers, strong yet tender, 
which swept the feeling of loneliness from her heart. 

“ Mary," said the man, “ I guess neither of us under- 
stand Billy and maybe we never will, quite. I’ve often 
tried to tell you how much your willin'ness to face this 
life here meant to him and me but I'm no good at that 
sort 'a thing. I just hoped you'd understan', that's all." 

“ Well, I'm goin' to do my duty by you both, allars," 
Mrs. Wilson spoke in matter-of-fact tones, as she reached 
for her sewing-basket. ‘ 1 When I feel you need checkin ' 
up, Tom Wilson, checked you're goin' to be, an’ when 
Willium needs a hidin' he's goin’ to get a hidin’. An," 
she added, as her husband got up from his chair, saying 
something about having to turn the horses out to pasture, 

1 1 you needn 't try to side-track me from my duty neither. ' ' 

“ All right, Mary," he agreed, his hand on the door- 
latch. 

“An’ if you're agoin' out to the barn do try'nd not 
carry any more of the barn-yard in on your big feet than 
you kin help. I jest finished moppin' the floors." 

Wilson stepped out into the spicy summer darkness and 
went slowly down the path to the bam. As far as eye 


BILLY WILSON’S STRATEGY 


15 


could reach, through the partially cleared forest, tiny 
clearing fires glowed up through the darkness, seeming to 
vie with big low hanging stars. The pungent smoke of 
burning log and sward mingled pleasantly with the scent 
of fern and wild blossoms. 

Wilson lit his pipe and with arms folded on the top 
rail of the barnyard fence gazed down across the partially- 
cleared, fire-dotted sweep to where, a mile distant, a long, 
densely timbered point of land stood darkly silhouetted 
against the sheen of a rising moon. 

From the bay-waters came the lonely cry of a loon, from 
the marshes the booming of night-basking bullfrogs. The 
hoot of the owl sounded faintly from the forest beyond; 
the yap of a foraging fox drifted through the night’s still- 
ness from the uplands. 

A long time Wilson stood pondering. When at length 
he bestirred himself a full moon swam above a trans- 
figured world. A silvery sheen swept softly the open 
spaces; through the trees the white bay-waters shimmered; 
the clearing fires had receded to mere sparks with silvery 
smoke trails stretching straight up towards a starred 
infinity. 

He sighed and turned to glance back at the cottage 
resting in the hardwood grove. It looked very homey, very 
restful to him, beneath its vines of clustering wild-grape 
and honeysuckle. It was home — home it must be always. 
And Mary loved it just as he loved it; this he knew. She 
was a fine woman, a great helpmate, a wonderful wife 
and mother. She was fair minded too. She loved Billy 
quite as much as she loved her own son, Anson. Billy must 
be more careful, more thoughtful of her comfort. He would 
have a heart to heart talk with his son, he told himself as 
he wont on to the barn. 


16 


A SON OF COURAGE 


He completed his chores and went thoughtfully back 
up the flower-edged path to the house. “ There’s one good 
thing about Mary’s crossness,” he reflected, 4 4 it don’t last 
long. She’ll be her old cheerful self ag’in by now.” 

But Mrs. Wilson was not her old cheerful self ; far from 
it. Wilson realized this fact as soon as he opened the 
door. She raised stern eyes to her husband as he entered. 

“ You see them? ” she asked with sinister calmness, 
pointing to a patched and clay-stained pair of trousers 
on the floor beside her chair. “ Them’s Willium’s. He’s 
jest gone to bed an’ I ordered him to throw ’em down to 
be patched.” 

Wilson nodded, “Yes, Mary? ” 

“ And do you see this here object that I’m holdin’ up 
afore your dotin’ father’s eyes? ” 

He came forward and took the object from her hand. 

“ It also belongs to your dear, gentle son,” she grated, 
“ leastwise I found it in one of his pants pockets.” 

Wilson whistled softly. “You don’t say! ” he managed 
to articulate. “ Why, Mary, it’s a pipe! ” 

“ Is it? ” 

“ Yes, a corn-cob pipe,” he repeated weakly. 

“ Is it re’lly? ” she returned with sarcasm. “ I wasn’t 
sure. I thort maybe it was a fish-line, or a jack-knife. 
Now what do you think of your precious son? ” she 
demanded. 

Wilson shook his head. “ It’s a new pipe,” he ventured 
to say, “ and,” sniffing the bowl, “ it ain’t had nuthin’ 
more deadly than dried mullen leaves in it so far. Ain’t 
a great deal of harm in a boy smokin’ mullen leaves, 
shorely, Mary.” 

* ‘ Oh, is that so ? Haven ’t I heered you an ’ Cobki Keeler 
say, time and ag’in, that that’s how you both got the 


BILLY WILSON'S STRATEGY 17 

smoke-habit? And look at you old chimbneys now; the 
pipe's never out 'a your mouths." 

“ I'll talk things over with Billy in the mornin'," 
promised Wilson as he took the boot- jack from its peg. 

“ A pile of good your talkin' 'll do," she cried. “I’m 
goin' to talk things over with that boy with a hickory 
ram-rod, jest as soon as I feel he’s proper asleep; that’s 
what I'm goin' to do! Who's trainin' that boy, you er 
me? ” she demanded. 

“ You, of course, Mary." 

“Well then, you best let me be. What I feel he should 
get, he's goin' to get, and get right. You keep out ’a this, 
Tom Wilson, if you want me to keep on; that's all." 

“ It don't seem right to wake boys up just to give ’em 
a whalin', Mary," he protested. “ My Ma used to wake 
me up sometimes, but never to whale me. I'd rather 
remember — ’ ’ 

“ Shut up ! I tell you, I'm goin’ to give him the hickory 
this night or I'm goin’ to know the reason why. I’ll break 
that boy of his bad habits er I’ll break my arm tryin’. 
You let me be! ’’ 

“I'm not foldin' fault with your methods of trainin’ 
boys, Mary," her husband hastened to say. “ You're doin’ 
your best by Billy, I know that right well. And Billy is 
rather a tough stick of first-grpwth timber to whittle 
smooth and straight, I know that, too. But the gnarliest 
hickory makes the best axe-handle, so maybe he'll make a 
good man some day, with your help." 

‘ ‘ Humph ! well that bein ’ so, I 'm goin ’ to help him see 
the error of his ways this night if ever I did," she promised 
grimly. 

Something like a muffled chuckle came from behind the 
stairway door, but the good woman, intent on her grievance, 


18 


A SON OF COURAGE 


did not hear it. Wilson heard, however, and let the boot- 
jack fall to the floor with a clatter. He picked it up and 
carried it over to its accustomed peg on the wall, whistling 
softly the tune which he had whistled to Billy in the old 
romping, astride-neck days: 

Oh, you’d better be up, and away, lad. 

You better be up and away! 

There is danger here in the glade, lad. 

It’s a heap of trouble you’ve made, lad — 

So you’d better be up and away! 

Over beside the table, Mrs. Wilson watched him from 
somber eyes. 

“ That’s right! ” she sighed. “ Whistle! It shows all 
you care. That boy could do anythin’ he wanted to do an’ 
you wouldn’t say a word; no, not a word! ” 

Wilson did not answer. He was listening for the stairs 
to creak, telling him that Billy had left his eaves-dropping 
for the security of the loft. 

Billy had heard and understood. When his dad sent 
him one of those “ up and away ” signals he never ques- 
tioned its significance. He didn’t like listening in secret, 
but surely he reasoned, a boy had a right to know just 
what was coming to him. And he knew what was coming 
to him, all right — a caning from the supple hickory ram- 
rod — maybe! 

Up in the roomy loft which he and his step-brother, 
Anson, shared together, he lit the lamp. Anson was sleep- 
ing and Billy wondered just what he would say when he 
woke up in the morning and found his pants gone. Their 
mother had demanded that a pair of pants be thrown down 
to her. Billy needed his own so he had thrown down 
Anson’s. 

But how in the world was he ever going to get out of 


BILLY WILSON’S STRATEGY 


19 


that window with Anson’s bed right up against it, and 
Anson sleeping in the bed? Anson would be sure to hear 
the ladder when Walter Watland and Maurice Keeler raised 
it against the wall. He must get Anson up and out of 
that bed ! 

Billy placed the lamp on a chair and reaching over shook 
Anson’s long, regular snore into fragments of little gasps. 
He shook harder and Anson sat up, sandy hair rumpled 
and pale blue eyes blinking in the light. 

“ What’s’amatter? ” he asked sleepily. 

“ Hush,” cautioned Billy. “ Ma’s downstairs wide 
awake and she’s awful cross. What you been doin’ to rile 
her, Anse? ” 

Anson frowned and scratched his head. “ Did you tell 
her ’bout my lettin’ the pigs get in the garden when I 
was tendin’ gap this afternoon? ” he asked suspiciously. 

“ No, it ain’t that. I guess maybe she’s worried more’n 
cross, an’ she’s scared too — scared stiff. Well, who 
wouldn’t be with that awful thing prowlin’ around ready 
to claw the insides out ’a people in their sleep? ” 

Anson sat up suddenly. 

“ What you talkin’ ’bout, Bill? What thing? Who’s 
it been clawin’? Hurry up, tell me.” 

Billy glanced at the window, poorly protected by a 
cotton mosquito screen, and shivered. 

“ Nobody knows what it is,” he whispered. “ Some say 
it’s a gorilla and others say it’s a big lynx. 01’ Harry’s 
the only one who saw it, an’ he’s so clawed and bit he 
can’t describe it to nobody.” 

“ Great Scott! Bill, you mean to say it got oV Harry? ” 

Billy nodded. “Yep, last night. He was asleep when 
that thing climbed in his winder an’ tried to suck his 
blood away.” 


20 


A SON OF COURAGE 


“ Ugh! ” Anson shuddered and pulled the bed clothes 
up about his ears. “ How did it get it, Bill? Does any- 
body know? ” 

“ Well, there was a tree standin’ jest outside his winder 
same as that tree stands outside this one. It climbed that 
tree and jumped through the mosquito nettin’ plumb onto 
oF Harry. He was able to tell the doctor that much afore 
he caved under / 9 

Anson’s blue eyes were staring at the wide unprotected 
window. Outside, the moon swam hazily above the forest ; 
shadows like huge, misshapen monsters prowled on the 
sward ; weird sounds floated up and died on the still air. 

“ Bill,” Anson’s voice was shaking, “ I don’t feel like 
sleep in’ longside this winder. That awful thing might come 
shinnin’ up that tree an’ gulp me up. I’m goin’ down 
and ask Ma if I can’t sleep out in the shed with Moll an’ 
the pups. ’ ’ 

Billy promptly scented a new danger to his plans. “ If 
I was you I wouldn’t do that, Anse,” he advised. 

“ Well, I’m goin’ to do it.” Anson sat up in bed and 
peered onto the floor. 

* 1 Where the dickens are my pants?” he whispered. 
“ See anythin’ of ’em, Bill? ” 

“ Anse,” Billy’s voice was sympathetic. “ I see I have 
to tell you everythin’. Ma, she’s goin’ to give you the 
canin’ of your young life, jest as soon as she thinks we’re 
proper asleep.” 

“Canin’? Me? Whatfer? ” 

“ Why, seems she was up here lookin’ fer somethin’ a 
little while ago. She saw your pants layin’ there an’ she 
thought maybe they needed patchin’, so she took ’em down 
with her.” 

“Well, what of it?” 


BILLY WILSON’S STRATEGY 21 

“ Oh, nuthin’, only she happened to find a pipe in one 
of the pockets, that’s all.” 

“ Jerusalem! ” Anson’s teeth chattered. “Well, I’m 
goin’ down anyway. I don’t mind a hidin’, but I’m 
derned if I’m goin’ to lay here and get clawed up by no 
gorilla. ’ ’ 

“ Anse, listen,” Billy put a detaining hand on his 
brother’s shoulder. “You don’t need to do that, an’ you 
needn’t sleep in this bed neither. I’ll sleep in it , an’ you 
kin sleep in mine. That gorilla, er whatever it is, can’t 
hurt me, cause I’ve got that rabbit-foot charm that Tom 
Dodge give me. I’ll tie it round my neck.” 

Anson reflected, shuddering as a long low wail came from 
the forest. 

“That’s the boys,” Billy told himself. “I’ve gotta 
move fast.” 

Aloud he urged: “ Come on, Anse. Get out an’ pile 
into my bed. I ain’t scared to sleep in yours, not a bit. 
Besides,” he added, “ it’ll save you a canin’ from Ma.” 

“ How will it, I’d like to know? ” 

“ Why this way. Ma’ll come creepin’ up here in the 
dark, when she thinks we’re asleep an’ she’ll come straight 
to this — your bed. She’ll turn down the clothes an’ give 
me a slash or two, thinkin’ it’s you. I’ll let her baste me 
some — then I’ll speak to her. She’ll be so surprised she’ll 
ferget all about whalin’ you. She’s that way, you know. 
Like as not shell laugh to think she basted me — an’ she’ll 
be good-natured. You needn’t worry any about a lickin’, 
Anse.” 

“ Well, 111 take a chance, Bill.” 

Anson got out of bed, his white legs gleaming in the 
yellow lamp-light as he tiptoed softly across to Billy’s 
cot and lay down. 


22 


A SON OF COUBAGE 


Billy blew out the lamp and went through the motions 
of undressing. He removed one shoe, let it fall on the floor, 
waited an interval and let the same shoe fall again. Then 
he put it back on. By and by he lay down and gave a 
long, weary sigh. Then he held his breath and listened. 

Below his window sounded a whippoorwill’s call. From 
the opposite side of the room came the long, regular snores 
of Anson. Billy sat up in bed and started to remove the 
tacks from the window screen. 

Something fell with a thud against the wall outside, and 
brushed against the boards. A cat mewed directly beneath 
the window. Gently Billy rolled the bed quilts into an 
oblong shape resembling a human form, then silently made 
his way out of the window. 

His feet struck the top round of a ladder. A moment 
more and he was crouching in the shadow of the wall, two 
shadowy forms squatting beside him. 

“ All hunky? ” a voice whispered in his ear. 

“ All hunky,” Billy whispered back. 

“ Then come on.” 

But Billy plucked at the speaker’s sleeve. “ Wait a 
minute, Fatty,” he urged. “ Anson’s up there asleep, an’ 
he’s goin’ to have a wakin’ nightmare in about four 
seconds. I jest heard Ma goin’ up.” 

Silence, deep and brooding, fell. Then suddenly from 
the loft came a long wail, followed by a succession of 
shorter gasps and gulps, and above the swish of a hickory 
ram-rod a woman’s voice exclaiming angrily. 

* ‘ I *11 leach you to smoke on the sly, you young outlaw, 
you! ” 

“ Now let’s get while the gettin’s good,” whispered 
Billy; and the three crept off into the shadows. 

Down through the night-enshrouded woods the boys 


BILLY WILSON'S STRATEGY 


23 


made their way noiselessly, Billy leading, Walter Watland, 
nicknamed Patty on account of his size, close behind him 
and Maurice Keeler, Billy's sworn chum and confidant, 
bringing up the rear. Occasionally a soft-winged owl 
fluttered up from its kill, with a muffled ‘ ‘ who-who. ’ ' Once 
a heavy object plunged from the trail with a snort, and 
the boys felt the flesh along their spines creeping. They 
kept on without so much as a word, crossing a swift creek 
on a fallen tree, holding to its bank and making a detour 
into the woods to avoid passing close to a dilapidated log 
cabin which in the moonlight bore evidence of having 
fallen into disuse. As they skirted the heavy thicket of 
pines, which even in the summer night’s stillness sighed 
low and mournfully, the leader halted suddenly and a 
low exclamation fell from his lips. 

“ Look! ” he whispered. “ Look! There's a light in 
the ha 'n ted house." 

His companions crept forward and peered through the 
trees. Sure enough from the one unglazed window of the 
old building came the twinkle of a light, which bobbed 
about in weird, uncertain fashion. 

“ Old Scroggie’s ghost huntin' fer the lost money," 
whispered Walter, “ Oh, gosh! let's leg it! " 

4 1 Leg nuthin'! " Billy removed his hand from his 
trousers-pocket and waved something before two pairs of 
fear-widened eyes. 

44 * No ghost kin harm where lies this charm,' " he recited 
solemnly. 44 Now if you fellers feel like heatin' it, why 
beat it; but so long as I’m grabbin' onto this left hind 
foot of a graveyard rabbit I don't run away from no 
ghost — not even old man Scroggie 's. ' ' 

44 That's all right fer you, Bill," returned Walter, 44 but 
what's goin' t' happen t' Maurice an' me, supposin' that 


24 A SON OF COURAGE 

ghost takes a notion to gallop this way? That's what I 
want 'a know! ” 

Billy turned upon him. “ Say, Fatty, haven’t I told 
you that this here charm protects everybody with me? ” 
he asked cuttingly. 

“ There’s never been a ghost that ever roamed nights 
been able to get near it. You kin ask Tom Dodge er any 
of the other Injuns if there has.” 

“ Oh it might lay an Injun ghost,” said the unreason- 
able Fatty, “ but how about a white man’s? How about 
old man Scroggie’s, fer instance? You know yourself, 
Bill, old man Scroggie was a tartar. Nobody ever fooled 
him while he was alive an’ nobody need try now he’s dead. 
If he wants to come back here an’ snoop round lookin’ fer 
the money he buried an’ forgot where, it’s his own funeral. 
I’m fer not mixin’ up in this thing any — ” 

“ Keep still! ” cautioned Billy, “ an’ look yonder! See 
it?” 

He pointed through the trees to an open glade in the 
grove. The full moon, riding high in the sky, threw her 
light fair upon the fern-sown sod ; across the glade a white 
object was moving — drifting straight toward the watchers. 
Billy, tightly gripping his rabbit’s foot charm in one sweaty 
hand and a rough-barked sapling in the other, felt Walter’s 
hands clutching his shoulders. 

“ Oh Jerusalem! ” groaned the terrified Fatty, “ It’s 
the ghost! Look, it’s sheddin’ blue grave-mist! Fer the 
love of Alike let’s git out ’a this! ” 

“ Wait,” gulped Billy, but it was plain to be seen he 
was wavering. His feet were getting uneasy, his toes 
fairly biting holes through his socks in their eagerness 
to tear up the sward. But as leader it would never do 
for him to show the white feather. 


BILLY WILSON’S STRATEGY 


25 


The approaching terror had drifted into the shadow 
- again. Suddenly, so near that it fairly seemed to scorch 
the frowsy top of the sapling to which he was hanging, a 
weird blue light twisted upward almost in Billy’s eyes. At 
the same moment a tiny hoot-owl, sleeping off its early 
evening’s feed in the cedar close beside the boys, woke up 
and gave a ghostly cry. It was too much for over- 
strained nerves to stand. Billy felt Patty’s form quiver 
and leap even before his agonized howl fell on his ears — 
a cry which he and Maurice may have echoed, for all he 
knew. 

They were fully a mile away from the place of terror 
before sheer exhaustion forced them to abate their wild 
speed and tumble in a heap beneath a big elm tree, along 
the trail of the forest. 

For a time they lay gasping and quivering. Maurice 
Keeler was the first to speak. “ Say, Bill,” he shivered, 
* * is it light enough fer you to see if the hair is scorched 
off one side o’ my head? That — that ghost’s breath shot 
blue flame square in my face.” 

“ It grabbed me in its bony fingers,” whispered Fatty. 
“ Gosh, it tore the sleeve fair out ’a my shirt. Look! ” 
And to prove the truth of hi§ statement he lifted a fat 
arm to which adhered a tattered sleeve. 

Billy sat up and surveyed his companions with disgust. 

“ A nice pair of scare-babies you two are,’ he said, 
scathingly. “ A great pair you are to help me find old 
Scroggie’s will an’ money. Why, say, if you’d only kept 
your nerve a little, that ghost would ’a led us right to the 
spot, most likely ; but ’stead o’ that you take to your heels 
at first sight of it. Say! I thought you both had more 
sand. ’ ’ 

Maurice squirmed uncomfortably. “ Now look here, 


26 


A SON OF COURAGE 


Bill,” he protested, “ Fatty an' me wasn’t any searter 
than you was, yourself. Who made the first jump, I 
want ’a know; who? ” 

“ Well, who did? ” snapped Billy, glowering at his two 
bosom friends. 

“You did,” Maurice affirmed. “ An’ you grabbed 
Fatty by the arm an’ pulled his shirt sleeve out. I saw 
you. And you can’t say you didn’t run neither, else how 
did you get here same time as Fatty an’ me? ” 

“ Well, I didn’t run, but I own I f ottered you,” com- 
promised Billy. “ There wasn’t anythin’ else I could do, 
was there ? How did I know what you two scared rabbits 
ud do? You might ’a run plumb into Lake Erie an’ got 
drownded, you was so scared. Somebody’s had to keep 
his head,” he said airily. 

“Well I kept mine by havin’ a good pair of legs,” 
groaned Fatty. “ I’m not denyin’ that. And by gravy, 
if they had been good enough fer a thousand miles I ’d’ve 
let ’em go the limit. Scared! Oh yowlin’ wildcats! I’ll 
see ghosts an’ smell brimstone the rest o’ my life.” 

“ Boys,” cried Billy in awed tones. “It’s gone! ” 

“What’s gone? ” asked his companions in a breath. 

Billy was feeling frantically in his pockets. “ My rab- 
bit foot charm,” he groaned. “ I fell over a log an’ it 
must ’a slipped out ’a my pocket.” 

“You had it in your hand when th’ ghost poked its 
blue tongue in our faces,” affirmed Maurice. “ I saw it.” 

“ You throwed somethin’ at the ghost afore you howled 
an’ run,” Fatty stated. “ Maybe it was the rabbit foot? ” 

“ ‘ No ghost kin harm where lies this charm,’ ’ 
chuckled Maurice. 

Billy turned on him. “ If you want ’a make fun of a 
charm, why all right, go ahead,” he said coldly. “ Only 


BILLY WILSON’S STRATEGY 


27 


I know I wouldn’t do it, not if I wanted it to save me 
from a ghost, anyway.” 

Maurice looked frightened. “ I wasn’t pokin’ fun at 
the charm, Bill, cross my heart, I wasn’t,” he said earnestly. 

“ All right then, see that you don’t. Now, see here, I’ll 
tell you somethin’. I did throw my rabbit’s foot charm 
but that was to keep that ghost from follerin’. Maybe you 
two didn’t hear it snort when it got to that charm an* 
tried to pass it, so’s to catch up to us; but I heard it. 
Oh say, but wouldn’t it be mad though! ” 

“ An’ that’s why you throwed it,” exclaimed the ad- 
miring Maurice. “ Gosh, nobody else would ’a thought 
of that.” 

“Nobody,” echoed Fatty, “nobody but Bill.” 

“ Well, somebody has to think in a case o’ that kind,” 
admitted Billy, “an’ think quick. It was up to me to 
save you, an’ I did the only thing I could think of right 
then.” 

Just here the whistle of bob-white sounded from a 
little distance along the trail. 

“ That’s Elgin Scraff and Tom Holt cornin’ to look fer 
us,” cried Maurice. 

“ Answer ’em,” said Billy. 

Maurice puckered up his lips and gave an answering 
call. It was returned almost immediately. A moment 
later two more boys came into the moonlight. 

“ We wondered what kept you fellers, so came lookin’ 
fer you,” spoke Tom Holt as they came up. “ Thought 
you’d be cornin’ by the tamarack swamp trail, an’ we stuck 
around there fer quite a while, waitin’. Then Elgin said 
maybe you had come the ha ’n ted house way, so we struck 
through the bush an’ tried to pick up your trail. Once 
we thought we saw the ghost, but it turned out to be old 


28 


A SON OF COURAGE 


Ringold’s white yearlin’ steer. It had rubbed up ag’inst 
some will-o-the-wisp fungus an* it fair showered sparks 
of blue fire. If we hadn’t heered it bawlin’ we’d have 
run sure.” 

Somewhere behind him Billy heard a giggle, which was 
immediately suppressed as he turned and looked over his 
shoulder. 

“Yep,” he replied, “we saw that steer, too. We’ve 
been waitin’ here, hopin’ we’d hear your whistle. I won- 
der what time it’s gettin’ to be? ” 

Tom Holt, the proud possessor of a watch, consulted it. 
“ Ten twelve an’ a half,” he answered, holding the dial 
to the moon-light. “ Sandtown ’ll be sound asleep. Come 
on, let’s go down to the lake an’ make a haul.” 

“ I s’pose we might be goin’,” said Billy. “ All right, 
fellers, come along.” 

Arriving at the lake the boys learned after careful 
reconnoitering that everything was clear for immediate 
action. Not a light glimmered from the homes of the 
fishermen, to show that they were awake and vigilant. 

The white-fish run was on and when the boys, launching 
the big flat-bottomed fish boat, carefully cast and drew 
in the long seine it held more great gleaming fish than 
they knew how to dispose of. 

“ Only one thing to do,” reasoned Billy, “ take what 
we want an’ let the rest go.” 

And this they did. When they left the beach the moon 
was low above the Point pines, the draw-seine was back in 
its place on the big reel and there was nothing to show 
the lake fishermen that the Scotia Fish Supply Company 
had been operating on their grounds. 


CHAPTER II 


A SHOWER OF FISH 

Between the fishermen of Sandtown and the farmers of 
the community existed no very strong bond of sympathy 
or friendship. The former were a dissolute, shiftless lot, 
quite content, with draw-seine and pound-net, to eke out 
a miserable existence in the easiest manner possible. They 
were tolerated just as the poor and shiftless of any com- 
munity are tolerated; their children were allowed to 
attend the school the same as the children of the tax- 
payers. 

Each spring the farmers attended the fishermen’s annual » 
bee of pile-driving, which meant the placing of the stakes 
for the pound nets — a dangerous and thankless task. Wet, 
weary and hungry, they would return to their homes at 
night with considerable more faith in the reward that 
comes of helping one’s fellow-men than in the promise of 
the fishermen to keep them supplied, gratis, with all the 
fresh fish they needed during the season. 

As far back as any of the farmers could remember the 
fishermen had made that promise and in no case had it 
been fulfilled. So they came, in time, to treat it as a 
joke. Nevertheless, they were always on hand to help with 
the pile-driving. They were an old-fashioned, simple- 
hearted people, content with following the teachings of 
their good Book — “ Cast thy bread upon the waters, for 
thou shalt find it after many days.” 

And find it they did, ultimately, in a mysterious and 
unexpected way. One late June morning each of the 

29 


30 


A SON OF COURAGE 


farmers who had for season after season toiled with those 
fishermen without faintest hope of earthly reward awoke 
to find a mess of fresh lake fish hanging just outside their 
respective doors. It was a great and wonderful revelation. 
The circuit minister, Rev. Mr. Reddick, whose love for and 
trust in his fellow-men was all-embracing, wept when the 
intelligence was imparted to him, and took for his text on 
the Sunday following a passage of scripture dealing with 
the true reward of unselfish serving. It was a stirring 
sermon, the rebuke of a father to his children who had 
erred. 

“ Oh ye of little faith,” he concluded, “ let this be 
a lesson to you; and those of you, my brothers, whose 
judgment of humanity has been warped through God- 
given prosperity, get down on your knees and pray humbly 
for light, remembering that Christ believed in His fisher- 
men.” 

At the conclusion of the service, Deacon Ringold called 
a few of the leading church members together and to them 
spoke his mind thus : 

“ Brothers, you heard what our minister said, an’ he’s 
right. I, fer one, am ashamed of the thoughts I’ve thought 
to’rds them fishermen of Sandtown. I’ve acted mean to 
’em in lots of ways, I’ll admit. An’ so have you — you 
can’t deny it! ” 

The deacon, a florid, full-whiskered man of about sixty, 
glowered about him. No one present thought of disputing 
his assertion. The deacon was a power in the community. 

“ I tell you, brothers,” he continued, waxing eloquent, 
“ the old devil is pretty smooth and he’ll get inside the 
guard of Christianity every time unless we keep him 
barred by acts of Christly example. I have been down- 
right contemptuous to them poor sand folks; I have so! 


A SHOWER OF FISH 


31 


Time and ag’in I’ve refused ’em even the apples rottin’ 
on the ground in my orchard. Now, I tell you what I’m 
goin’ to do. I’m goin’ to load up my wagon with such 
fruit an’ vegetables as they never get a smell of, an’ I’m 
goin’ to drive down there and distribute it among ’em. 
I ain’t suggestin’ that you men do likewise — that’s 
between you and your conscience — but,” he added, glar- 
ing about him, ‘ 4 1 ’d like to know if any of you has any 
suggestions to make.” 

A tall, sad-visaged man rose slowly from his seat and 
took a few steps up the aisle. Like the others he was full 
bearded; like them his hands bore the calluses of honest 
toil. 

“ Fisherman Shipley wanted to buy a cow from me on 
time,” he said. “ I refused him. If you don’t mind, 
Deacon, I’ll lead her down behind your wagon tomorrow.” 

Ringold nodded approval. “ All right, Neighbor Wat- 
land. Anybody else got anythin’ to say? ” 

A short, heavy set man stirred in his seat, and spoke 
without rising. “ I’m only a poor working-man, without 
anythin’ to give but the strength of my arm, but I’m willin’ 
to go down and help them fishermen build their smoke- 
houses. I’m a pretty good carpenter, as you men know.” 

“ That you are, Jim,” agreed the deacon heartily. 
“ We’ll tell ’em that Jim Glover ’ll be down to give ’em 
a hand soon.” 

One by one others got up and made their little offers. 
Cobin Keeler, a giant in stature, combed his flowing beard 
with his fingers and announced he’d bring along a load 
of green corn-fodder. Gamp Stevens promised three bags 
of potatoes. Joe Scraff, a little man with a thin voice, said 
he had some lumber that the fishermen might as well be 
using for their smoke-houses. Each of the others present 


32 


A SON OF COURAGE 


offered to do his part, and then the men separated for 
their several homes. 

“ Understand, brothers,” the deacon admonished as they 
parted, “ we must be careful not to let them poor, ignorant 
people think we’re doin’ this little act of Christianity 
because they’ve seen fit to fulfill their promise to us 
regardin’ fish. That would spoil the spirit of our givin\ 
Let not one man among us so much as mention fish. 
Brotherly kindness, Christian example. That’s our motto, 
brothers, and we’ll f oiler it.” 

“ You’re right, Deacon,” spoke Cobin Keeler. 

“ He’s always right,” commented Scraff, who owed the 
deacon a couple of hundred dollars. “ An’,” he added, 
“ while we’re hangin’ strictly to Bible teachin’, might it 
not be a good idea fer us not to let our left hand know 
what our right hand’s doin’? ” 

“ Meanin’ outsiders? ” questioned Keeler. 

“ Outsiders and insiders as well ; our wives fer instance.” 
Scraff had a mental vision of a certain woman objecting 
strenuously to the part he hoped personally to play in the 
giving. 

14 Humph,” said the deacon, “ Joe Scraff may be right 
at that. Maybe it would be just as well if we kept our 
own counsel in this matter, brothers. Tomorrow momin’, 
early, let each of us prepare his offerin’ and depart fer 
the lake. We’ll meet there and make what distribution 
of our gifts as seems fair to them cheats — I mean them 
poor misguided fishermen,” he corrected hurriedly. 

And so they parted with this understanding. And when 
their footsteps had died away, a small, dusty boy crawled 
out from under the penitent bench, slipped like a shadow 
to a window, opened it and dropped outside. 

By mid-afternoon Billy Wilson’s boon companions had 


A SHOWER OP FISH 


33 


learned from him that a good-will offering was to be made 
the fishermen of Sandtown by the people of Scotia. It 
was a terrible disgrace — a dangerous state of affairs. The 
hated Sand-sharkers merited nothing and should receive 
nothing, if Billy and his friends could help it. Immediate 
action was necessary if the plan of the farmers was to be 
frustrated and the outlaw fishermen kept in their proper 
place. So Billy and his friends held a little caucus in the 
beach grove behind the school-house. For two hours they 
talked together in low tones. Then Billy arose and crept 
stealthily away through the trees. The others silently 
separated. 

##**# 

Sunset "was streaking the pine tops with spun gold and 
edging the gorgeous fabric with crimson ribbons; the big 
lake lay like an opal set in coral. Fishermen Shipley 
and Sward, seated on the bow of their old fish-boat, were 
idly watching the scene when Billy Wilson approached, 
hands in pockets and gravely surveyed them. 

Shipley was a small, wizened man with scant beard and 
hair. He wheezed a “ Hello, Sonny ” at Billy,' while he 
packed the tobacco home in his short, black pipe with a 
claw-like finger. 

His companion, a tall, thin man, grinned, but said noth- 
ing. His red hair was long and straggly; splashes of 
coal-tar besmeared him from the neckband of his greasy 
shirt to the bottoms of his much-patched overalls. 

4 1 What dye you want, boy ? ’ ’ Shipley ’s pipe was alight 
now and he peered down at Billy through the pungent 
smoke-wreaths. 

“ I was sent down here to give you a message, Mr. Ship- 
ley,’ ’ said Billy. 

4 4 Well, what is it, then? Who sent you? Come now, 


34 A SON OF COURAGE 

out with it quick, or 111 take a tarred rope-end to you.” 

“ It was Deacon Ringold sent me,” Billy answered. 
“ He told me to tell you that he's got to turn his pigs into 
the orchard tomorrow an' that you an’ the other people 
here might as well come an’ gather up the apples on the 
ground if you want 'em.” 

‘ ‘ What ! ’ ’ Shipley and Sward started so forcibly that 
their heads came together with a bump. “ So the old 
skinflint is goin’ to give us his down apples, is he? ” 
wheezed Shipley. “ Well, he ain’t givin’ much, but well 
come over tonight and get ’em. It’s a wonder the old 
hypocrite would let us gather ’em on Sunday night, ain’t 
it, Benjamin? ” he addressed his companion. 

“ He’s afeerd they’ll make his hogs sick most like,” 
sneered Sward. 

4 4 He says, if you don’t mind, to come about ten or 
’leven o’clock,” said Billy. 

Shipley threw back his head and chuckled a wheezing 
laugh. “Loramity! Benjamin,” he choked, “ can’t you 
get his reason fer that? He wants to make sure that all 
the prayer-meetin’ folks will be gone home f It wouldn’t 
do fer ’em to see us helpin’ keep the deacon’s pigs from 
cholery. Ain’t that like the smooth old weasel, though? ” 

“ What’ll I tell Mr. Ringold? ” asked Billy as he turned 
to go. 

“You might tell him that he’s an angel if you wanter 
lie to him,” returned Shipley, “ or that he’s a canny old 
skin-flint, if you wanter tell him the truth. I reckon, 
though, sonny, you best tell him that we’ll be along ’tween 
ten and ’leven. 

“ That’s a nice lookin’ youngster,” remarked Sward, 
as Billy was lost among the pines. “ Notice the big eyes 
of him, Jack? ” 


A SHOWER OF FISH 


35 


“ Yes. Oh, I daresay the boy’s all right, Benjamin, but 
he belongs to them Scotians and they ’re no friends of ourn. 

I reckon I scared him some when I threatened to give 
him the rope, eh? ” 

“ Well, he wasn’t givin’ no signs that you did,” Sward 
returned, “ he seemed to me to be tryin’ his best to keep 
from laughin’ in your face.” 

“ By thunder! did he now? ” 

“ Fact, Jack. Seems to me them young Scotians don’t 
scare very easy. However,” sliding off the boat, “ that 
ain’t gettin’ ready for the apple gatherin’. Let’s go and 
mosey up some sacks and get the others in line.” 

Shipley laid a claw-like hand on his friend’s arm and 
turned his rheumy eyes on Sward’s blinking blue ones. 
“ Benjamin, we’re goin’ after the deacon’s apples, but we 
ain’t goin’ to take no windfalls 

“ You mean we’ll strip the trees, Jack? ” exulted Sward. 

“ Exactly. And, Benjamin, kin you imagine the old 
deacon’s face in the momin’ when he sees what we’ve 
done ? ’ ’ And the two cronies went off laughing over their 
prospective raid. 

# * # # # 

Sunday-night prayer meeting was just over. The wor- 
shippers had gone from the church in twos and threes. 
Deacon Ringold had remained behind to extinguish the 
church lights and lock up. As he stepped from the porch 
into the shadows along the path, a small hand gripped 
his arm. 

“ Hello! ” exclaimed the startled deacon. “ Why, 
bless us, it’s a boy! Who are you, and what do you 
want? ” 

Apparently the boy did not hear the first question. 

II Mr. Ringold,” he whispered, “ I waited here to see 


36 


A SON OF COURAGE 


you. The Sandtown fishermen are cornin' to rob your 
orchard tonight. ’ ' 

“ What? " The deacon gripped the boy's arm and 
shook him. “ What’s that you say? " he questioned 
eagerly. 

“ I was down to the lake this evenin'," said the boy, 
“ an’ I heard Shipley and Sward talkin' together. They 
was plannin' a raid on your orchard tonight." 

Mr. Ringold fairly gasped. “ Oh, the thankless, mis- 
guided wretches! " he exclaimed. “ And to think that 
we were foolish enough to feel that we hadn’t treated 
’em with Christian kindness. Did you hear 'em say what 
time they was cornin', boy? " 

“Yes sir. They said ’bout half-past ten." 

“ Well, I’ll be on hand to receive 'em," the deacon 
promised, “ and if I don’t teach them thieves and rogues 
a lesson it’ll be a joke on me. Now I must run on and 
catch up with Cobin Keeler and the rest o' the neighbors. 
They've got to know about this, so, if you'll jest tell me 
your name — why, bless me, the boy's gone! " 

The deacon stood perplexedly scratching his head. Then 
he started forward on a run to tell those who had planned 
with him a little surprise gift for the fishermen of the 
perfidy of human nature. 

That night the fishermen of Sandtown were caught red- 
handed, stealing Deacon Ringold ’s harvest apples. Like 
hungry ants scenting sugar they descended upon that 
orchard, en masse, at exactly ten-thirty o'clock. By ten- 
forty they had done more damage to the hanging fruit 
than a wind storm could do in an hour and at ten-forty-five 
they were pounced upon by the angry deacon and his 
neighbors and given the lecture of their lives. In vain 
they pleaded that it was all a mistake, that they had been 


A SHOWER OF FISH 


37 


sent an invitation via a small boy, from the deacon himself. 

Ringold simply growled “ lying ingrates/ ’ and bade 
them begone and never again to so much as dare lay a 
boot-sole on his or his neighbors * property. And so they 
went, and with them went all hope of a possible drawing 
together in Christian brotherhood of the two factions. 

“ Brothers,” spoke the deacon sadly, as he and his 
neighbors were about to separate, “ I doubt if we have 
displayed the proper Christian spirit, but even a Chris- 
tian must protect his property. Oh, why didn’t some 
small voice whisper to them poor misguided people and 
warn ’em to be patient and all would be well.” 

“ It means, o’ course, that we’ll get no more fish,” 
spoke up the practical Seraff. 

“ Oh yes you will,” spoke a voice, seemingly above their 
heads. 

“ Oh yes you will,” echoed another voice on the left, 
and on the right still another voice chanted. “ You will, 
you will.” 

“ Mercies on us! ” cried the amazed deacon, clutching 
the fence for support. “ Whose voice was that? You 
heard it, men. Whose was it? ” 

The others stood, awed, frightened. 

“ There was three voices,” whispered Seraff. “ They 
seemed to be scattered among the trees. It’s black magic, 
that’s what it is — or old Scroggie’s ghost,” he finished 
with a shudder. 

“Joe, I’m ashamed of you,” chided the white-faced 
deacon. “ Come along to my house, all of you, and I’ll 
have wife make us a strong cup of tea.” 

They passed on, and then from the sable-hued cedars 
bordering the orchard four small figures stole and moved 
softly away. 


38 


A SON OF COURAGE 


Once safely out on the road they paused to look back. 

“ Boys,” whispered Billy, 11 she worked fine. Them 
Sand-sharkers are goin’ to stay where they belong. An’, 
fellers, seem’ as we’ve promised fish, fish it’s gotta be.” 
And so was formed the Scotia Fish Supply Company. 

Four shadowy forms drifted apart and were lost in 
deeper shadows. The golden moon rode peacefully in the 
summer sky. 


CHAPTER III 


APPRAISING THE NEW TEACHER 

The morning wood-mists were warm, sweet-scented; the 
wood-birds 9 song of thanksgiving was glad with the essence 
of God-given life. But the man astride the dejected and 
weary horse saw none of the beauties of his surroundings, 
heard none of the harmony, experienced none of the 
exhilaration of the life all about him, as he rode slowly 
down the winding trail between the trees. He sat erect 
in his saddle, eyes fixed straight before him. His face 
was strong and seamed with tiny lines. The prominence 
of his features was accentuated by the thinness of the 
face. Beady black eyes burned beneath the shadows of 
heavy brows. A shock of iron-grey hair brushed his 
shoulders. In one hand he held a leather-bound book, a 
long thumb fixed on the printed page from which his 
attention had been momentarily diverted by his survey of 
the woodland scene. 

“ Desolation! ” he murmured, “ desolation! the natural 
home of ignorance.’ ’ 

At the sound of his voice the old horse stood still. 
“ Thomas,” cried the rider sternly, “ did I command you 
to halt? ” 

From his leather boot-leg he extracted a long wand of 
seasoned hickory and brought it down on the bay flank 
with a cutting swish. The hickory represented the symbol 
of progress to Mr. George G. Johnston, the new teacher of 
Scotia school. Certain it was it had the desired effect in 
this particular instance. The aged horse broke into a 

39 


40 


A SON OF COURAGE 


jerky gallop which soon carried the rider out into more 
open country. 

Here farms, hemmed in by rude rail-fences, looked up 
from valley and hillside. Occasionally a house of greater 
pretensions than its fellows, and built of unplaned lumber, 
gleamed in the morning sunlight in gay contrast to the 
dun-colored log ones. But the eternal forest, the primi- 
tive offering of earth’s first substance, obtruded even here, 
and the rider’s face set in a frown as he surveyed the 
vista before him. 

Descending into a valley he saw that the farm homes, 
which from the height seemed closely set together, were 
really quite a distance from each other. He reined up 
before a small frame house and, dismounting, allowed his 
hungry horse to crop the grass, as he opened the gate and 
made up the path. A shaggie collie bounded around the 
corner of the building and down to meet him, bristles 
erect and all the antagonism of a bush-dog for a stranger 
in its bearing. It was followed by a big man and a boy. 

“ Here you, Joe, come back here and behave yourself,” 
the master thundered and the dog turned and slunk back 
along the path. 

“ Homin’, sir,” greeted Cobin Keeler. 

In one hand he carried a huge butcher-knife, in the 
other a long whetstone. More big knives glittered in the 
leather belt about his waist. “ Jest sharpenin’ my knives 
ag’in the hog-killin’,” he explained, noting the stranger’s 
startled look. 

The teacher advanced, his fears at rest. “ My name is 
Johnston,” he said, “ George G. Johnston. I was directed 
here, sir. You are Mr. Keeler, are you not, one of the 
trustees of the school of which I am to have charge? ” 

Keeler thrust out a huge hand. “ That’s me,” he 


APPRAISING THE NEW TEACHER 


41 


answered. “ You’re jest in time fer breakfast. It’s nigh 
ready. Come ’round back an’ wash up. Maurice, go put 
the teacher’s horse in the stable an’ give him a feed.” 

The teacher followed his host, gingerly rubbing the 
knuckles which had been left blue by the farmer’s strong 
grip. 

The boy, who had been studying the man before him, 
turned away to execute his father’s order. If he knew 
anything about teachers — and he did — he and the other 
lads of the community were in for a high old time, he told 
himself. He went down to the gate, the dog trotting at 
his heels. 

“Joe,” he commanded, “ go back home,” and the collie 
lay down on the path, head between his forepaws. 

The boy went out through the gate and approached the 
feeding horse cautiously. His quick eyes appraised its 
lean sides and noted the long welt made by the hickory on 
the clearly outlined ribs beneath the bay hide. 

“ Poor ol’ beggar,” he said gently. 

At the sound of his voice the horse lifted his head and 
gazed at the boy in seeming surprise. A wisp of grass 
dangled from his mouth; his ears pricked forward. Per- 
haps something in the boy’s voice recalled a voice he had 
known far back along his checkered life, when he was a 
colt and a bare-legged youngster fed him sugar and rode 
astride his back. 

“ He ought ’a get a taste o’ the gad hisself,” muttered 
Maurice. “ An’ he’s goin’ to be our teacher, oh, Gosh! 
Well, I kin see where me an’ Billy Wilson gets oura — 
maybe. ’ ’ 

He patted the horse’s thin neck. “ Come, ol’ feller, I’ll 
stuff you with good oats fer once,” he promised. 

The horse reached forward his long muzzle and lipped 


42 


A SON OF COURAGE 


one of the boy's ears. “ Say horses don’t understand! ” 
grinned Maurice. “ Gee! I guess maybe they do under- 
stand, though.” 

He gave the horse another pat and led him down the 
path into the stable. As he unsaddled him Maurice noticed 
the hickory wand which Mr. Johnston had left inserted 
between the upper loops of a stirrup. 

“ Hully gee! ol’ feller, look! ” Maurice extracted the 
wand and held it up before the animal’s gaze. i( Oh, don’t 
put your ears back an’ grin at me. I ain’t goin* to use 
it on you,” laughed the lad. “ Look! This is what I’m 
goin’ to do with that ol’ bruiser’s pointer.” From a 
trouser’s pocket he extracted a jackknife. “ Now horsie, 
jest you watch me close. The next time he makes a cut 
at you he’s goin’ to get the surprise of his life. There, 
see? I’ve cut it through. Now I’ll jest rub on some of 
this here clay to hide the cut. There you be ! If I know 
anythin’ ’bout seasoned hickory that pointer’s goin’ to 
split into needles right in his hand. I hope they go through 
his ol’ fist and clinch on t’other side.” 

Maurice gave the tired horse a feed of oats, tossed a 
bundle of timothy into the manger, slapped the bay flank 
once again and went up the path to his breakfast. 

Mrs. Keeler, a swarthy woman, almost as broad as she 
was tall, and with an habitual cloud of gloom on her fea- 
tures, met him at the door. She was very deaf and spoke 
in the loud, querulous tone so often used by people suffer- 
ing from that affliction. 

“ Have you seen him? ” she shouted. “ What you think 
of him, Maurice? ” 

Maurice drew her outside and closed the door. “ Come 
over behind the woodpile, Ma, an’ I’ll tell you,” he 
answered cautiously. 


APPRAISING THE NEW TEACHER 


43 


“ No, tell me here.” 

“ Can’t. He might hear me.” 

“ Then you ain’t took to that new teacher, Maurice? ” 

“ Not what you’d notice, Ma. He ain’t any like Mr. 
Stanhope. His face — I ain’t likin’ it a bit. Besides, Ma, 
he flogs his poor horse somethin’ awful.” 

“ How do you know that? ” asked the mother, eying 
him sharply. 

“ Cause he left long welts on him. He’s out in the 
stable. Go see fer yourself.” 

“ No, I ain’t got time. I got t’ fry some more eggs an’ 
ham. Go ’long in to your breakfast, an’ see you keep 
your mouth shut durin’ the meal. An’ look here,” she 
admonished, “ if I ketch you apullin’ the cat’s tail durin’ 
after-breakfast prayers I’ll wollop you till you can’t stand. ” 

Maurice meekly followed his mother inside and slipped 
into his accustomed place at the table. 

Mr. Johnston was certainly doing justice to the crisp 
ham and eggs on the platter before him. Occasionally he 
lifted his black eyes to flash a look at his host, who was 
entertaining him with the history of the settlement and 
its people. 

“ You’ll find Deacon Ringold a man whose word is as 
good as his bond,” Cobin was saying. “ I’m married to 
his sister, Hannah, but I ain’t sayin’ this on that account. 
The deacon is a right good livin’ man, fond of his own 
opinions an’ all that, an’ close on a bargain, but a good 
Christian man. He’s better off than anybody else in 
these parts. But what he got he got honest. I ’ll say that, 
even if he is my own brother-in-law.” 

“ Yes, yes,” spoke Mr. Johnston, impatiently. “ No 
doubt I shall get to know Mr. Ringold very well. Now, 
sir, concerning your other neighbors? ” Mr. Johnston 


44 


A SON OF COURAGE 


held a dripping yolk of egg poised, peering from beneath 
his brows at his host. 

“Well, there’s the Proctors, five families of ’em an’ 
every last one of ’em a brother to the other.” 

“ Meaning, I presume, that there are five brothers by 
the name of Proctor living in the community.” 

“ By Gosh, you’ve hit it right on the head. That’s what 
eddication does fer a man — makes him sharp as a razor. 
Yes, they’re brothers an’ so much alike all I’ve got to do 
is describe one of ’em an’ you have ’em all.” 

“ Remarkable,” murmured Mr. Johnston. “ Remark- 
able, indeed! ” 

“ Did you say more tea, teacher? ” Mrs. Keeler was 
at his elbow, steaming tea-pot in hand. 

“ Thank you, I will have another cup,” Mr. Johnston 
answered, and turned his eyes back to Cobin. 

“You have a neighbor named Stanhope, my predecessor, 

I understand,” he said slowly. 

“I’m proud to say we have, sir,” beamed Keeler, “an’ 
a squarer, finer young man never lived. A mighty good 
teacher he was too, let me tell you. ’ ’ 

“ I have no doubt. I have heard sterling reports of 
him; if he erred in his task it was because he was too 
lenient. Tell me, Mr. Keeler, is there not some history 
attached to him concerning a will, or property left by a 
man by the name of Scroggie ? I ’ll admit I have no motive 
in so questioning save that of curiosity, but one wishes to 
know all one can learn about the man one is to follow. 
Is that not so, ma’am? ” he asked, turning to the watchful 
hostess. 

“More ham? Certainly.” Mrs. Keeler came forward 
with a platter, newly fried, and scraped two generous 
slices onto Mr. Johnston’s plate. “ Now, sir, don’t you 


APPRAISING THE NEW TEACHER 


45 


be affeard to holler out when you want more,” said the 
hospitable housewife. 

“ Ma’s deefness makes her misunderstan ’ sometimes/* 
Cobin explained in an undertone to the teacher. 44 But I 
was jest about to tell you Mr. Stanhope’s strange history, 
sir, an’ about ol’ Scroggie’s will. You see the Stanhopes 
was the very first to drop in here an’ take up land, father 
an’ son named Frank, who wasn’t much more’n a boy, but 
with a mighty good eddication. 

“ Roger Stanhope didn’t live long but while he lived 
he was a right good sort of man to f oiler an’ before he 
died he had the satisfaction of seem* the place in which 
he was one of the first to settle grow up into a real neigh- 
borhood. Young Frank had growed into a big, strappin’ 
feller by this time an’ took hold of the work his father had 
begun, an’ I must say he did marvels in the clearin’ an’ 
burnin ’. 

4 4 So things went along fer a few years. Then come a 
letter from England to Roger Stanhope. Frank read it 
to me. Seems they wanted Stanhope back home, if he was 
alive; if not they wanted his son to come. Frank didn’t 
even answer that letter. He says to me, 4 Mr. Keeler, this 
spot’s good enough fer me.’ An* by gosh! he stayed. 

44 When this settlement growed big enough fer a school, 
young Frank, who had a school teacher’s di-ploma, offered 
to teach it. His farm was pretty well cleared by this time, 
so he got a man named Henry Burke to work it fer him 
an’ Burke’s wife to keep house. That was five years ago, 
an’ Frank has taught the Valley School ever since, till 
now.” 

Keeler paused, and sighed deeply. 44 ’Course, sir, you’ve 
heerd what happened an’ how? He was tryin’ to save 
some horses from a burnin’ stable. A blazin’ beam fell 


46 A SON OF COURAGE 

across his face; his eyes they — ” Keeler’s voice grew 
husky. 

“I’ve heard,” said Mr. Johnston. “ His was a brave 
and commendable act.” 

“ But he did a braver thing than that,” cried Cobin. 
“ He giv’ up the girl who was to marry him, ’cause, he 
said, his days from now on must be useless ones, an’ he 
wouldn’t bind the woman he loved to his bleakness an’ 
blackness. Them was his very words, sir. ’ ’ 

To this Mr. Johnston made no audible reply. He simply 
nodded, waiting with suspended fork, for his narrator to 
resume. 

“Concerning the purported will of the eccentric Mr. 
Scroggie? ” he ventured at length, his host having lapsed 
into silence. 

Keeler roused himself from his abstraction and resumed : 
“ Right next to the Stanhope farm there stood about a 
thousand acres of the purtiest hardwoods you ever clap’t 
an eye on, sir. An ol’ hermit of a drunken Scotchman, 
Scroggie by name, owned that land. He lived in a dirty 
little cabin an’ was so mean even the mice was scared to 
eat the food he scrimped himself on. He had money too, 
lots an’ lots of gold money. I’ve seen it myself. He kept 
it hid somewhere. 

“ When the Stanhopes built their home on the farm, 
which was then mostly woods, old Scroggie behaved some- 
thin’ awful. He threatened to shoot Stanhope. But 
Stanhope only laughed an’ went on with his cuttin’ an’ 
stump-pullin’. Scroggie used to swear he’d murder both 
of ’em, an’ he was always sayin’ that if he died his ghost 
would come back an’ ha’nt the Stanhopes. Yes, he said 
that once in my own hearin’. 

“ One night, two years after Roger Stanhope died, old 


APPRAISING THE NEW TEACHER 


47 


Scroggie got drunk an’ would have froze to death if 
Frank hadn’t found him an’ carried him into his own 
home. Scroggie cursed Frank fer it when he came 
round but Frank paid no attention to him. After that, 
Scroggie — who was too sick to be moved — ^got to takin’ 
long spells of quiet. He would jest set still an’ watch 
Frank nights when the two was alone together. 

“ After a while the old man got strong enough to go 
home. Soon after that he disappeared an’ stayed away 
fer nearly three weeks. Then, all at once, he turned up at 
home ag’in. He came over to Stanhope’s house every now 
an’ ag’in to visit with him. One night he says to Frank 
after they had had supper: ‘ Frank,’ says he, ‘ I’ve been 
over to Cleveland an’ I ’vo made my will. I’ve left you 
everythin’ I own. You’re the only decent person I’ve 
known since I lost my ol’ mother. I want that thousand 
acre woods to stand jest as God made it as long as I’m 
alive ; when I die you kin do what you like with it. ’ Then 
afore Frank could even thank him the old man got up an’ 
hobbled out. 

“ Next morain’,” continued Cobin, “ Frank went over 
to see old Scroggie. He wanted to hear him say what he 
told him the night afore, ag’in. It was gettin’ along 
towards spring; the day was warm an’ smelled of maple 
sap. Scroggie ’s cabin door was standin’ ajar, Frank says. 
The ol’ man was sittin’ in his chair, a Bible upside down 
on his knees. He was dead ! 

“ Frank told Mr. Reddick, the preacher who came to 
bury old Scroggie, all that had passed between him an’ 
the dead man but although they hunted high an’ low fer 
the will, they never found it. Nor did they find any of 
the money the ol’ miser must have left behind — not a 
solitary cent That was over a year ago, an’ they haven’t 


48 


A SON OF COURAGE 


found money or will yet. But this goes to show what a 
real feller Frank Stanhope is. He put a fine grave stone 
up for oF Scroggie an' had his name engraved on it. Yes 
he done that, an’ all he ever got from the dead man was 
his curses. 

“ Well, soon after they put old Scroggie under the sod, 
along comes a nephew of the dead man. No doubt in the 
world he was Scroggie 's nephew. He looked like him, an' 
besides he had the papers to prove his claim that he was 
the dead man's only livin' relative. An' as Scroggie 
hadn't left no will, this man was rightful heir to what he 
had left behin', 'cordin' to law. He spent a week er two 
prowlin' round, huntin' fer the dead man's buried money. 
At last he got disgusted huntin’ an’ findin’ nuthin' an' 
went away." 

“ And he left no address behind? " questioned Mr. 
J ohnston. 

“ He surely did not," answered Cobin. “ Nobody 
knows where he went — nor cares. But nobody can do 
anythin' with that timber without his sayso. It's a year 
or more since ol’ Scroggie died. People do say that his 
ghost floats about the old cabin* at nights, but of course 
that can't be, sir." 

* ‘ Superstitious nonsense, ’ ’ scoffed the teacher. ‘ ‘ And so 
the will was never found? " 

‘ ‘ No, er the buried money, ' ’ sighed Cobin. 

Mr. Johnston pushed his chair back from the table. 
“ Thank you exceedingly, Mr. Keeler. I have enjoyed 
your breakfast and your conversation very much indeed. 
Madam," he said, rising and turning to Mrs. Keeler, 
“ permit me to extend to you my heartfelt gratitude for 
your share in the splendid hospitality that has been 
accorded me. I hope to see you again, some day." 


APPRAISING THE NEW TEACHER 


49 


“ Certainly,” returned Mrs. Keeler, “ Cobin! Maurice! 
kneel down beside your chairs. The teacher wants to 
pray.” 

Mr. Johnston frowned, then observing his host and 
hostess fall to their knees, he too got stiffly down beside 
his chair. He prayed long and fervently and ended by 
asking God to help him lead these people from the shadow 
into enlightenment. 

It was during that prayer that Maurice, chancing to 
glance at the window, saw Billy Wilson’s pet crow, Croaker, 
peering in at him with black eyes. Now, as Croaker often, 
acted as carrier between the boys, his presence meant only 
one thing — Billy had sent him some message. Cautiously 
Maurice got down on all fours and crept toward the door. 

“ Now teacher,” said Keeler, the prayer over, “ you jest 
set still, an’ I’ll send Maurice out after your horse.” 

He glanced around in search of the boy. “ Why, bless 
my soul, he’s gone! ” he exclaimed. “ There’s a youngster 
you’ll need to watch close, teacher,” he said grimly. 

“ Well sir, you jest rest easy an’ I’ll get your horse 
myself.” 


CHAPTER IV 


THE MESSAGE CROAKER BROUGHT 

4 4 Missus Wilson, where’s Billy? ” 

Mrs. Wilson turned to the door, wiped her red face on 
her apron, and finished emptying a pan of hot cookies into 
the stone crock, before answering, sternly: 

4 4 He’s down to the far medder, watchin’ the gap, 
Maurice. Don’t you go near him.” 

44 No ma’am, I won’t. Jest wondered where he was, 
that’s all.” 

44 I ’low you’re try in’ to coax him away fishin* er some- 
thin’.” 

44 Oh, no ma’am. I gotta get right back home to Ma. 
She’s not very well, an’ she’ll be needin’ me.” 

4 4 Fer land sakes ! you don ’t say so, Maurice. Is she 
very bad? ” The tones were sympathetic now. Maurice 
nodded, and glanced longingly at the fresh batch of brown 
cookies. 

44 She was carryin’ the big meat-platter on her arm an’ 
she fell with her arm under her — an’ broke it.” 

44 Lord love us!” Mrs. Wilson started to undo her 
apron. 44 Why didn’t you tell me before, you freckle- 
faced jackass, you! Lord knows what use you boys are 
anyways 1 Think of you, hangin’ ’round here askin’ fer 
Billy and your poor Ma at home groanin’ in pain an’ 
needin’ help. Ain’t you ’shamed of yourself? ” 

44 Yes ma’am,” admitted Maurice cheerfully. 44 1 guess 
I should ’a told you first off but Ma she said if you was 
busjr not to say anythin’ ’bout her breddn’ it.” 

50 


THE MESSAGE CROAKER BROUGHT 


51 


“ Well, we’ll see about that. No neighbor in this here 
settlement is ever goin’ to say that Mary Wilson ever 
turned her back on a f eller-bein ’s distress. I’ll go right 
over to your place with you now, Maurice. Come along. ’ ’ 

Mrs. Wilson was outside, by this time, and tying on her 
sun-bonnet. Maurice held back. She grasped his arm and 
hustled him down the walk. 

“ Is it broke bad, Maurice? ” she asked anxiously. 

Maurice, peering about among the trees, answered 
absently. 

“ Yes ma’am. I guess she’ll never be able to use it 
ag’in.” 

“ Oh pity sake! Let’s hurry.” 

Maurice was compelled to quicken his steps in order to 
keep up to the long strides of the anxious woman. Sud- 
denly he halted. “ Missis Wilson,” he said, “ you fergot 
to take that last pan o’ cookies out ’a the oven.” 

The woman raised her hands in consternation. 

“ So I did,” she exclaimed. “ You stay right here an’ 
111 go back and take it out now.” 

“ Let me go,” said Maurice quickly. “ I know jest how 
to do it an’ kin get through in less’n half the time it 11 
take you.” 

“ Well, run along then. I best keep right on. Your 
poor Ma 11 be needin’ me.” 

Maurice was off like a shot. As he rounded the house 
on a lope he ran into Billy, coming from the opposite 
direction. Billy’s cotton blouse was bulging. In one hand 
he carried the smoking bake-pan, in the other a fat cookie 
deeply scalloped on one side. 

“ Where you goin’ so fast, Maurice? ” he accosted, his 
mouth full. 

Maurice glanced fearfully over his shoulder. “ Hush, 


52 A SON OF COURAGE 

Bill. If your Ma happens to come back here it’ll go bad 
with me.” 

Billy held out the pan to his chum and waited until 
Maurice had filled his pockets. Then he asked: “ Where’s 
she gone? ” 

“ Over to our place. I told her about Ma failin’ an’ 
breakin’ the meat-platter, an’ I guess she misunderstood. 
She tried to take me along with her. I had an awful time 
to get ’way from her. ’ ’ 

Billy laughed. “ Gee! Ma’s like that. Nobody gets 
’way from her very easy. Here, fill your shirt with the 
rest o’ these cookies, an I’ll take the pan back; then we’ll 
be goin’.” 

“ Fish ought ’a bite fine today,” said Maurice as he 
stowed the cookies away in his bosom. 

“ You bet. The wind’s south. Have you got the 
worms dug? ” 

“ Yep. They’re in a can in my pocket. Did Croaker 
come back? ” he inquired, as the two made their way down 
the path. 

“ Sure he came back. He’s a wise crow, that Croaker, 
an’, Oh gosh! don’t he hate Ma, though! He gets up in 
a tree out o’ reach of her broom, an’ jest don’t he call her 
names in crow talk? Ma says she’ll kill him if ever she 
gets close enough to him an’ she will, too.” 

“ Well sir, I nigh died when I seen him settin’ on our 
winder-sill,” laughed Maurice. “ We was havin’ momin* 
prayer; the new teacher was at our place an’ he was 
prayin’. Croaker strutted up an’ down the sill, peerin’ 
in an’ openin’ an’ shuttin’ his mouth like he was callin’ 
that old hawk-faced teacher every name he could think 
of. I saw he had a paper tied ’round his neck so I crawled 
on my hands an’ knees past Ma, an’ slipped out. If Ma 


THE MESSAGE CROAKER BROUGHT 53 

hadn't been so deef, she'd have heard me an' nabbed me 
sure. ' ' 

Billy chuckled. “ Then you got my message off of 
Croaker, Maurice? " 

“ Yep; but by jinks! I had a awful time guessin’ 
what you meant by them marks you made on the paper. 
Darn it all, Bill, why can’t you write what you want ’a 
say, instead of makin' marks that nobody kin understand " 
“ There you go, ag'in," cried Billy. “ How many times 
have I gotta tell you, Maurice, that Trigger Finger Tim 



never used writin'. He used symbols — that's what he 
used. Do you know what a symbol is, you poor block- 
head? " 

“ I should say I do. It’s a brass cap what women use 
to keep the needle from runnin' under their finger-nail.” 

“Naw, Maurice. A symbol is a mark what means some- 
thin'. Have you got that message I sent you? Well, give 
it here an' I’ll show you. Now then, you see them two 
marks standin' up 'longside each other? " 

“ Yep." 

“ Well, what do you think they stand fer? " 

“ I thought maybe you meant 'em fer a couple ef trees, 

BiU.'' 


54 


A SON OF COURAGE 


‘ ‘ -Well I didn 't. Them two marks are symbols, signiiyin ’ 
a gap.” 

‘ ‘ A gap ? Hully Gee ! ' 7 

“ Yep, an’ this here animal set tin' in that gap, what 
you think it is?” 

Maurice shook his head. “It’s maybe a cow? ” he 
guessed hopefully. 

“ Nope, it's a dog. Now then, you see these two boys 
runnin' away from the gap? ” 

“ Gosh, is that what they be, Bill? Yep, I see ’em.” 

“ Well, that's me an' you. Now then, what you s'pose 
I meant by them symbols ? I meant this. I’ve gotta watch 
gap. Fetch your dog over an’ we’ll set him to watch it, 
an’ we’U skin out an’ go fishin’.” 

Maurice whistled. “ Well I'll be jiggered!” he 
exclaimed. “ I wish't I'd knowed that. Say, tell you 
what I'll do. I’ll sneak up through the woods an' whistle 
Joe over here now.” 

“ No, never mind. I bribed Anse to watch that gap 
fer me.” 

“ What did you have t' give him? ” 

“ Nuthin'. Promised I wouldn't tell him no ghost 
stories fer a week if he 'd help me out. ' ’ 

They had topped a wooded hill and were descending 
into a wide green valley, studded with clumps of red 
willows and sloping towards a winding stretch of pale 
green rushes through which the white face of the creek 
flashed as though in a smile of welcome. Red winged 
blackbirds clarioned shrilly from rush and cat-tail. A 
brown bittern rose solemnly and made across the marsh 
in ungainly flight. A blue crane, frogging in the shallows, 
paused in its task with long neck stretched, then got 
slowly to wing, long pipe-stem legs thrust straight out 


THE MESSAGE CROAKER BROUGHT 


55 


behind. A pair of nesting black ducks arose with soft 
quacks and drifted up and out, bayward. 

Billy, who stood still to watch them, was recalled' sud- 
denly to earth by his companion’s voice. 

“ Bill, our punt’s gone! ” 

With a bound, Billy was beside him, and peering through 
the rushes into the tiny bay in which they kept their boat. 

“ Well, Gee whitticker! ” he exclaimed. “ Who do you 
s’pose had the nerve to take it? ” 

Maurice shook his head. “ None of our gang ’ud take 
it, ’ ’ he said. 1 ‘ Likely some of them Sand-sharks. ’ ’ 

“ That’s so,” Billy broke off a marsh-flag and champed 
it in his teeth. 

Maurice was climbing a tall poplar standing on the bank 
of the ereek. “ I say, Billy,” he cried excitedly. “ There 
she is, jest ’round the bend. They’ve beached her in that 
piece of woods. It’s Joe LaRose an’ Art Shipley that took 
her, I’ll bet a cookie. They’re always goin’ ’cross there 
to hunt fer turtle’s eggs.” 

4 4 Then come on! ” shouted Billy. 

“ Where to? ” 

“ Down opposite the punt. I’m goin’ t’ strip an’ swim 
across after her.” 

Maurice dropped like a squirrel from the poplar. “ An’ 
leave them boat thieves stranded? ” he panted. “Oh gosh! 
but won’t that serve ’em right! ” 

“ Let’s hustle,” urged Billy. “ They may come back 
any minute.” 

They ran quickly up the valley, Billy unfastening his 
few garments as they ran. By the time Billy had reached 
the bend he was in readiness for the swim across. With- 
out a thought of the long leeches — “blood-suckers” the 
boys sailed them — which lay on the oozy bottom of the 


56 


A SON OF COURAGE 


creek’s shallows ready to fasten on the first bare foot that 
came their way, he waded out toward the channel. 

“ Bill, watch out! ” warned Maurice. “ There’s a big 
womper coiled on that lily-root. You’re makin’ right 
fer it.” 

“ I see it,” returned Billy. “I guess I ain’t scared of 
no snakes in these parts.” 

“ But this beggar is coiled,” cried his friend. “ If he 
strikes you, he’ll rip you wide open with his horny nose. 
Don’t go, Bill.” 

“ Bah! he’s uncoilin’, Maurice; he’ll slip off, see if he 
don’t. There, what did I tell you? ” as the long mottled 
snake slid softly into the water. “ You can’t tell me any- 
thin’ ’bout wompers. ^ 

“ But what if a snapp in ’-turtle should get hold of your 
toe? ” shuddered Maurice. 

* ‘ Shut up ! ” Billy commanded. ‘ ‘ Do you want them 
Sand-sharks to hear you? You keep still now, I’m goin’ 
after our punt.” 

Billy was out in mid stream now, swimming with swift, 
noiseless strokes toward the boat. Just as he reached it 
the willows along shore parted and two boys, both larger 
than himself, made a leap for the punt. Billy threw him- 
self into the boat and as the taller of the two jumped for 
it his fist shot out and caught him fairly on the jaw. He 
toppled back half into the water. Billy seized the paddle 
and swung it back over his shoulder. The other boy halted 
in his tracks. Another moment and the punt was floating 
out in midstream. 

LaRose had crawled to shore and sat dripping and 
sniffling on the bank. 

“ Now, maybe the next time you boat-thieves find a 
punt you’ll think twice afore you take it,” shouted Billy. 


THE MESSAGE CROAKER BROUGHT 


57 


“ How ’re we goin’ to get back ’cross the crick? ” 
whined the vanquished LaRose. 

“ Swim it, same’s I did,” Billy called back. 

“But the snakes an’ turtles!” wailed the marooned 
pair. 

“ You gotta take a chance. I took one.” Billy urged 
the punt forward across the creek to where the grinning 
and highly delighted Maurice waited. 

“ Jump in here, an’ let’s get fishin’.” 

Maurice lost no time. “ Where’ll we go, Bill? ” 

“Up to the mouth. There’s green bass up there an’ 
lots of small frogs, if we need ’em, fer bait.” 


CHAPTER V 


A WILDERNESS MERCHANT 

Caleb Spencer, proprietor of the Twin Oaks store, paused 
at his garden gate to light his corncob pipe. The next 
three hours would be his busy time. The farmers of Scotia 
would come driving in for their mail and to make neces- 
sary purchases of his wares. His pipe alight to his satis- 
faction, Caleb crossed the road, then stood still in his tracks 
to fasten his admiring gaze on the rambling, unpainted 
building which was his pride and joy. He had built that 
store himself. With indefatigable pains and patience he 
had fashioned it to suit his mind. Every evening, just at 
this after-supper hour, he stood still for a time to admire 
it, as he was doing now. 

Having quaffed his customary draught of delight from 
the picture before him Caleb resumed his walk to the store, 
pausing at its door to straighten into place the long bench 
kept there for the accommodation of visiting customers. 
As he swung the bench against the wall he bent and peered 
closely at two sets of newly-carved initials on its smooth 
surface. 

“ W. W.” he read, and frowned. “ By ding! That's 
that Billy Wilson. Now let's see, 1 A. S.’ I wonder who 
them initials stand fer? ” With a shake of his grizzled mop 
he entered the store. 

A slim girl in a gingham dress stood in front of the 
counter placing parcels in a basket. She turned a flushed 
face, lit with brown roguish eyes, on Caleb, as he came in. 

“ Had your supper, Pa? " she asked. 

58 


A WILDERNESS MERCHANT 


59 


“ Yep.” Caleb bent and scrutinized the basket. 

“ Whose parcels are them, Ann? ” he questioned. 

“ Mrs. Keeler’s,” his daughter answered. “ Billy Wil- 
son left the order.” 

“ Hump, he did, eh? Well, let’s see the slip.” He 
took the piece of paper from the counter and read: 

One box fruit-crackers. 

10 pounds granulated sugar. 

Two pounds cheese. 

1 pound raisins. 

1 pound lemon peel. 

4 cans salmon. 

50 sticks hoarhound candy. 

There were other items but Caleb read no further. He 
stood back sucking the stem of his pipe thoughtfully. 
“ Whereabouts did that Billy go, Ann? ” he asked at 
length. 

“ Why, he didn’t go. He’s in the liquor-shop settin’ a 
trap for that rat, Pa.” 

4 4 Oh he is, eh? Well, tell him to come out here; I want 
to see him.” 

Caleb waited until his daughter turned to execute his 
order, then the frown melted from his face and a wide 
grin took its place. “ The young reprobate,” he muttered. 
“ What’ll that boy be up to next, I wonder? I’ve got t’ 
teach him a lesson, ding me ! if I haven’t. It’s clear enough 
t’ me that him and that young Keeler are shapin’ fer a 
little excursion, up bush, and this is the way they take 
to get their fodder.” 

He turned slowly as his daughter and Billy entered from 
the rear of the shop and let his eyes rest on the boy’s 
face. “ How are you, Billy? ” he asked genially. 


60 


A SON OF COURAGE 


“ I’m well, thanks, ” and Billy gazed innocently back 
into Caleb’s eyes. “ I hope your rheumatiz is better, Mr. 
Spencer. ’ ’ 

“ It is,” said Caleb shortly, “ and my eyes are gettin’ 
sharper every day, Billy.” 

“ That’s good,” said Billy and bent to pick up the 
basket. 

“ Jest a minute, young man.” Caleb’s voice was stern. 
“I see you’ve cut your own and your best gal’s initials 
onto my new bench. Did you have much trouble doin’ it, 
might I ask? ” 

Billy stood up, a grin on his face. “ That pine bench 
looked so invitin’ I jest couldn’t help tryin’ my new knife 
on it,” he explained. “ But I didn’t s’pose fer a minute 
that you’d mind.” 

“ Well, by ding! I don’t know but what I do mind. 
What if you should take a notion, some day, to carve up 
the side of this buildin’, hey? ” 

Billy grew thoughtful. “ I hadn’t thought o’ that,” he 
said slowly. “ It’s pine, too, ain’t it? It ’ud carve fine.” 

Caleb turned quickly towards a pile of goods, behind 
which an audible titter had sounded. 

“ Ann,” he commanded, “ you run along and get your 
supper.” 

He waited until his daughter had closed the door behind 
her. “ Now Billy,” he said, sternly, “ understan’ me when 
I say that if you ever so much as lay a knife-blade onto 
the walls of this here store I’ll jest naturally pinch the 
freckles off’n your nose, one by one. Hear that? ” 

“ Yes, sir.” 

“ Well, heed it, and heed it close. I’ll overlook the 
cuttin’ of my new bench, but, by ding! I’d ruther you’d 
carve me than carve this store.” He paused abruptly and 


A WILDERNESS MERCHANT 61 

bent on Billy a quizzical look. “Whose ’nitials are them 
under youm? ” he asked. 

Billy started. “Oh gosh! I dunno, Mr. Spencer; I jest 
cut the first ones come into my head.” 

‘ ‘ Umph ! I ’m not so green as I look. I know whose 
they be. They’re Ann’s.” 

Billy was silent. Should he tell the truth and say that 
he had carved Ann’s initials on the bench and those of 
Walter Watland beneath them at that young lady’s plead- 
ing request? No! 

“ WeR? ” Caleb asked finally. “ What about it? ” 

Billy drew himself up and lied like a gentleman. “ I 
guess that’s all there is about it,” he said with dignity. 
“ Ann’s my girl, an’ she said I could cut my ’nitials under 
hers if I wanted to take the chance.” 

“ Oh, so she’s your gal, is she? ” Caleb thrust his hands 
deep into his pockets, striving hard to keep his face stern. 
“ How long you and Ann been sweetheartin ’ ? ” he asked. 

“ Five er six years; maybe longer.” 

“ Loramighty! ” Caleb sank weakly on a pile of horse- 
blankets, and gasped. 1 * But, Billy, she ’s only twelve now, 
and you — you can’t be much more’n fourteen at most.” 

“I’m growin’ fifteen,” said Billy gravely. “ Me an’ 
Ann’s been goin’ together fer quite a long spell.” 

Caleb placed his empty pipe in one pocket, fished in 
another and drew out a plug of Radiant Star chewing 
tobacco. He took a generous bite from one corner of the 
plug and champed it meditatively. 

“ Well, Billy,” he said with a twinkle in his eye, 
“ seein’s we’re to be right close related, some day, I guess 
it’s up to me to give you your supper. You go right along 
over to the house and eat with Ann. ’ ’ 

“ But I’m not hungry, Mr. Spencer,” said Billy quickly. 


62 


A SON OF COURAGE 


“ That don't make no difference; yon go along. I see 
Ann’s made a mistake in doin’ up Mrs. Keeler’s parcels. 
You can’t go back for a bit, anyways, so you might as well 
have your supper.” 

Billy went out and Spencer watched him cross the road 
and enter the cottage. “ Well, now,” he chuckled, “ ain’t 
that boy a tartar? But,” he added, “he’s got to be slicker 
than he is to fool old Caleb. Now, you jest watch me.” 

He lifted the basket to the counter and, taking the 
parcels from it, carefully emptied their contents back into 
the drawers from which they had been filled. Then from 
beneath the counter he drew out a box and with exquisite 
pains filled each of the empty bags and the cracker-box 
with sawdust. He tied the bags, packed them in the basket, 
tucked a roll of tea lead in the bottom, to give the basket 
weight, and placed it on the counter. Then he went out- 
side to sit on the bench and await Billy’s return. 

Caleb had come to Scotia Settlement when it was little 
more than a bald spot on the pate of the hardwoods. 
Gypsy-like he had strayed into the settlement and, to use 
his own vernacular, had pitched his wigwam to stay. One 
month later a snug log cabin stood on the wooded hillside 
overlooking the valley, and the sound of Caleb’s axe could 
be heard all day long, as he cleared a garden spot in the 
forest. That forest ran almost to the white sands of Lake 
Erie, pausing a quarter of a mile from its shore as though 
fearing to advance further. On this narrow strip of land 
the pines and cedars had taken their stand, as if in defiance 
of the more rugged trees of the upland. They grew close 
together in thickets so dense that beneath them, even on 
the brightest day, blue-white twilight rested always. Run- 
ning westward, these coniferous trees grew bolder and 
widened so as to almost cover the broad finger-like point 


A WILDERNESS MERCHANT 


63 


of land which separated Rond Eau Bay from Lake Erie, 
and thither many of the wild things crept, as civilization 
advanced to claim their old roaming grounds. The point, 
known as Point Aux Pines, was ten miles long, affording 
abundance of food and perfect shelter. 

But on the uplands the forests grew sparser as the axes 
of rugged homesteaders, who had followed in the footsteps 
of Caleb Spencer, bit home. Gradually farms were cleared, 
rough stumpy fields the tilling of which tested the hearts 
of the strongest, but whose rich soil gladdened even the 
most weary. A saw mill was erected on the banks of a 
stream known as Levee Creek. Gradually the rough log 
cabins of the settlers were torn down to be replaced by 
more modem houses of lumber. 

And then Caleb Spencer had built his store and with 
far-seeing judgment had stocked it with nearly every 
variety of goods a growing community needs. Drygoods, 
Groceries, Hardware & Liquors! These comprehensive 
words, painted on a huge sign, stared out at all who passed 
along the road and in still more glaring letters beneath 
was the announcement, “ Caleb Spencer, Proprietor.” 

Everybody likeJ. Caleb. Even old man Scroggie had 
been fond of him, widen saying a great deal. It was 
said the old miser even trusted the gaunt storekeeper to a 
certain degree. At any rate it was commonly known that 
shortly before he died Scroggie had given into Spencer’s 
keeping, to be locked away in his rusty old store safe, a 
certain legal-looking document. Deacon Ringold and Cobin 
Keeler had witnessed the transaction. Accordingly, after 
Scroggie was buried and a search for the will failed to dis- 
close it, it was perhaps natural that a delegation of neigh- 
bors should wait on Caleb and question him concerning 
the paper which the deceased man had given him. To 


64 


A SON OF COURAGE 


everybody’s surprise Caleb had flared up and told the dele- 
gation that the paper in question was the consummation of 
a private matter between himself and the dead man, and 
that he didn’t have to show it and didn’t intend to show it. 

Of course that settled it. The delegation apologized, and 
Caleb tapped a keg of cider and opened a box of choice 
biscuits just to show that there were no hard feelings. 
Now this in itself was surely indisputable proof of the 
confidence his neighbors reposed in Caleb’s veracity and 
honesty, but considering the fact that Caleb had once 
quarrelled with the elder Stanhope, later refusing all over- 
tures of friendship from the latter, and had even gone so 
far as to cherish the same feeling of animosity toward the 
son, Frank, that trust was little short of sublime. For, 
providing Caleb disliked Frank Stanhope — and he did 
and made no attempt to hide it — what would be more 
natural than that he should keep him from his rightful 
inheritance if he could? 

But nobody mistrusted Caleb, Frank Stanhope least of 
all; and so, for the time being, the incident of the legal 
document was forgotten. 

Tonight, as Caleb sat outside on the bench waiting for 
the first evening customers to arrive, he reviewed the 
pleasant years of his life in this restful spot and was satis- 
fied. Suddenly he sat erect. From the edge of a walnut 
grove on the far side of the road came a low warble, sweet 
as the song of a wild bird, but with a minor note of sad- 
ness in its lilting. 

4 4 That’s old Harry and his tin whistle,” muttered Caleb, 
“ Glory be! but can’t he jest make that thing sing? ” 

Softly the last note died, and then the player emerged 
from the grove. He was little and bent. He wore a ragged 
suit of corduroys and a battered felt hat with a red feather 


A WILDERNESS MERCHANT 


65 


stuck jauntily in its band. His face was small, dark, and 
unshaven. In one grimy hand he carried a small demijohn. 
Arriving opposite Caleb, he lifted his battered hat and 
bowed low as a courtier would do. 

“ Glory be! It’s find ye alone I do, ” he spoke in rich 
Irish brogue. “It’s trill ye a chune I did from the copse, 
yonder, so ’s to soften the hard heart of ye, Caleb. It’s 
dhry I am as a last-year’s chip, an’ me little jug do be 
pinin’ fer a refillin’.” 

Caleb’s face grew stern. “ I told you, Harry O’Dule, 
that I ’d give you no more liquor, ’ ’ he replied. 

“ Faith, maybe ye did. But last night it’s the skies 
thimselves said ‘ rain,’ an’ begorry! there’s been not a 
sign av a shower t’day. What matters ut fer the failin’ 
av an idle wurrud now and thin ? It ’s meself knows you ’re 
too tinder hearted t’ refuse a small favor to a body that 
feels only love an’ respect fer yourself an’ the swate ones 
who wait ye in the flower-covered cottage, beyont.” 

“ Stop your blarney, Harry. I tell you I’ll give you 
no more whisky, and by ding! that goes! ” 

“ Thin I’ll be trudgin’ back along the way,” said 
O’Dule, hopelessly. “ But afore I go, I’ll be liltin’ ye a 
small chune that’ll mebee make ye understand somethin’ 
av a sadness yer generosity could lessen. Listen thin ! ’ ’ 

He set the jug down, and from his bosom drew forth a 
tin whistle. For a minute or two he played softly, his 
eyes on Caleb’s. Then, gradually, his eyes closed and a 
rapt expression settled upon his grimy face as he led his 
listener down strange by-paths of fancy. 

Suddenly, Caleb jumped from the bench. 11 Stop, Harry 
O’Dule! ” he entreated. “ That whistle of yours would 
soften the heart of old Nick himself. Do you want to set 
me crazy, man? Come, give me your jug, I’ll fill it this 


66 


A SON 07 COURAGE 


time. But remember, never ag’in. I mean that, by ding! ” 

He snatched up the demijohn and went into the store. 
Old Harry sat down on the bench and waited until he 
returned. 

“ It’s a good fri’nd ye’ve been t’ me, Caleb,” he said 
gratefully, as he lifted the jug and held it between his 
knees. “ It’s do widout me dhrink I cannot. Ut an’ me 
whistle are me only gleams av sunlight in the gloom. I’ll 
be after takin’ a little flash of the light now, if ut’s no 
objection ye have, for ut’s long dhry I’ve been.” He 
lifted the jug and took a long draught of its fiery contents. 

“ I’ll be movin’ now,” he said, as he wiped his mouth 
on a tattered sleeve. * ‘ God kape you safe, Caleb Spencer, 
an’ may yer whisky-barrel niver run dhry.” 

And placing his battered hat jauntily on his scanty 
locks, Harry picked up his jug and was lost amid the 
shadows. 

Presently Billy Wilson emerged from the cottage, 
received his basket from Caleb, and trotted off toward the 
Keeler place. 


CHAPTER VI 


THE RUSE THAT FAILED 

Out behind the wood-shed Maurice Keeler, by the dim 
light of a smoky lantern, was splitting kindling for the 
morning’s fire when something clammy and twisting 
dropped across the back of his neck. 

4 * Holy Smoke ! Bill, take it away ! ” he yelled, as his 
chum’s laugh fell on his ears. 

“ Gosh! you ain’t got no nerve a ’tall, Maurice! It’s 
only a milk-snake. I picked it up on my way home from 
the store. I’m goin* to put it in the menagerie.” 

Maurice sat down weakly on a block and wiped his face 
on his sleeve. 

‘ ‘ Hang it all, Bill ! ” he complained, < ‘ what do you see 
in snakes to make you want ’a handle ’em so? I’m scared 
to death of ’em; I own it.” 

“ I s’pose this feller an’ ol’ Spotba 11 fight to a finish,” 
said Billy, “ but I aim to keep one snake of each kind, so 
let ’em scrap it out. It won’t hurt that old womper to get, 
a good drubbin’ anyway.” 

He held the newly captured snake along his arm, its 
head resting in the palm of his hand. The dim light was 
sufficiently strong for Maurice to note the cold gleam in 
its eyes, and he shuddered. “ Some day you’ll try your 
monkey-shines on a puff-adder er a black-snake, ’ ’ he prophe- 
sied, “an’ then you’ll wish you hadn’t gone clean crazy.” 

Billy grinned and dropped the snake into his jacket 
pocket. “ I brought your Ma’s groceries,” he said. “ Is 
she in the house? ” 


67 


68 


A SON OF COURAGE 


“ Yep; she’s eannin’ thimble-berries. Jest wait till I 
get an armful of kindlin’, an’ I’ll go in with you.” 

Billy put the basket down again. “ Say, what did she 
want with all that hoarhound candy ? ” he asked curiously. 

Maurice chuckled. “ Why, Missis Spencer told her what 
great stuff it was to use in doin’ up thimble-berries; sorta 
takes the flat taste off ’em. So Ma, she’s goin’ to try it.” 

Billy whistled. “ But fifty sticks, Maurice! It’s almost 
more’n she’ll need, don’t you think? ” 

“ ’Course it’s a lot too much. S’pose we try on’ get hold 
of some of it, Bill? ” 

“ Suits me,” agreed Billy, “ but jest how? That’s tho 
question.” 

Maurice stooped and filled his arms with a load of 
kindling. * ‘ I dunno how, ’ ’ he replied, ‘ ‘ but you usually 
find out a way fer everythin’. What’s the matter with 
you lettin’ on you lost part of that candy? ” 

Billy shook his head. “ No good, she’d be onto us 
bigger ’n a bam. Tell you what we might do. We might 
take bad colds an ’ sorta work on her sympathies. ’ ’ 

“ Humph! an’ be kept close in the house fer a week er 
so, an’ have to take physic an’ stuff. No good, Bill! ” 

“ No, ours won’t be them kind of colds,” Billy 
explained. “ They’ll be the dry-cough, consumption kind, 
that either cure up quick er slow. All we gotta do is dig 
up an Injun turnip out o’ the bush an’ nibble it. It’ll 
pucker our throats up so tight we’ll be hoarse enough to 
sing bass in the choir.” 

Maurice let his kindling fall. “ Gee! ” he exclaimed, 
“ I ’ve got a piece of Injun turnip in my pocket right now. 
Ain’t that lucky! ” 

“ How’d you come to have it? ” 

“ Dug it up to fool Fatty Watland with. Was goin’ to 


THE RUSE THAT FAILED 


69 


tell him it was a ground-nut. I’ve had it in fer him ever 
since he shoved me off the bridge into the creek.’ ’ 

“ Let’s have it.” 

Billy took the Indian turnip from his chum and with 
his knife scraped off a portion of white, pungent pulp. 
“ Now then, put this on the back of your tongue, an' leave 
it there,” he directed. 

Maurice grimaced as he licked the bit of pulp from the 
knife blade. “ ’Course we both know this danged thing is 
pisin,” he said, uncertainly. “ Maybe we’re fools, Bill? ” 

“ There’s no maybe about it, far’s you’re concerned. 
Do as I tell you; slide it ’way back so’s it’ll tighten your 
throat. That’s right,” as Maurice heroically obeyed. 
“ Now, let’s get up to the house.” 

* ‘ But you haven ’t took youm ! ’ ’ cried Maurice. 

“ Don’t need to take mine,” Billy informed him. 
“ What’s the use of me takin’ any; ain’t one bad cough 
enough? ” 

Maurice squirmed in torture. Already the burning wild 
turnip was getting in its work. His throat felt as though 
it were filled with porcupine quills. He tried to voice a 
protest against the injustice Billy had done him but it 
ended in a wheeze. 

“ Fine,” commended Billy. “ A cold like that oughta 
be good fer half the hoarhound, anyway. Let ’s go in afore 
the thing wears off. You take the basket, I’ll carry the 
kindlin’ fer you.” 

He led the way to the house, Maurice following meekly 
with the market-basket, eyes running tears and throat 
burning. 

Mrs. Keeler was bending over a kettle on the stove, from 
which the aroma of wild thimble-berries came in fragrant 
puffs. 


70 


A SON OF COURAGE 


44 So you’re back at last, are you? ” she addressed Billy, 
crossly. 44 Thought you’d never come. I’ve been waitin’ 
on that sugar an’ stuff fer two hours er more. Now, you 
go into the pantry and get somethin’ to eat, while I unpack 
this basket. I know you must be nigh starved.” 

44 Had my supper,” shouted Billy. He threw the 
kindling into the wood box and grinned encouragement at 
Maurice, who had sunk miserably down on a stool. 

Mrs. Keeler lifted the basket which Maurice had placed 
on the floor at his feet. “ What’s the matter with you? ” 
she asked, giving him a shake. 

Maurice looked up at her with tear-filled eyes, and tried 
to say something. The effort was vain ; not a sound issued 
from his swollen lips. Billy promptly advanced to give 
first aid. 

“ Maurice’s sick,” he shouted in the deaf woman’s ear. 

44 Sick? Where’s he sick? ” Mrs. Keeler lifted the 
basket to the table and coming back to Maurice, put a 
berry-stained finger under his chin. 44 Stick out your 
tongue ! ” she commanded. ‘ ‘ Billy, you fetch that lamp 
over here.” 

Maurice opened his mouth and protruded his stained 
and swollen tongue. 

44 Good gracious! ” cried the mother, in alarm. “ That 
good fer nuthin’ boy has gone an’ caught the foot an’ 
mouth disease from Keamie’s sheep.” 

44 It’s jest a bad cold he’s caught,” Billy reassured her. 
4 4 He’s so hoarse he can’t speak.” 

44 Well, it might as well be one thing as another,” 
frowned the woman. 44 That boy catches everythin’ that 
comes along, anyway. I s’pose I’ll have to quit my pre- 
servin’ to mix him up a dose of allaways.” 

Maurice shivered and gazed imploringly at Billy. 


THE RUSE THAT FAILED 


71 


“ If you had somethin’ sweet an’ soothm’ to give him,” 
Billy suggested. “ Pine syrup, er hoarhound, er somethin’ 
like that, now — ” 

4 ‘Why, maybe you’re right,” agreed Mrs. Keeler, “an’ 
I do declare! I’ve got some hoarhound right here in this 
basket. Ain ’t it lucky I sent f er it ? ” 

The boys exchanged glances. The scheme was working! 
Mrs. Keeler went baek to the basket on the table and started 
to remove the packages, one by one. 

Billy addressed his chum in tones so low the deaf woman 
could not hear. “ Now, maybe you’ll think I know what 
I’m doin’,” he commenced, then jumped guiltily, as a cry 
of indignation came from the other side of the room. Mrs. 
Keeler was untying the parcels, one after another, and 
emptying their contents in the basket. Billy stared. Each 
of the parcels contained — sawdust . 

She turned slowly, stern eyes looking above her glasses 
straight into his startled and apprehensive ones. 

“ Well? ” she said ominously, “ I s’pose you think 
you’ve played a smart trick, you young limb! ” 

Billy tried to say something. His lips moved dumbly. 
Moisture gathered between his shoulder blades, condensed 
as it met cold fear, and trickled in tiny rivulets down his 
shivering spine. 

He glanced at the door. Mrs. Keeler’s square form inter- 
posed itself staunchly between him and that means of exit. 
His wild eyes strayed to the face of his chum. Maurice 
was grinning a glad, if swollen, grin. There was nothing 
to do but face the music. 

Mrs. Keeler was advancing towards him now ; advancing 
slowly like some massed avenging force of doom. “ I 
didn’t do that,” he finally managed to articulate. “ I 
didn’t play no trick on you, Missus Keeler.” 


72 


A SON OF COURAGE 


His knees knocked together. Unconsciously, his hand 
felt gropingly back toward the wood-box in seareh of some 
kind of support. Mrs. Keeler’s deafness was accountable 
for her misunderstanding of his words. She brought her 
advance to a halt and stood panting. 

“ I didn’t play no trick on you,” Billy repeated. 

“ I heard you the first time,” panted the indignant 
woman. 4 ‘ You said if I teched you you’d take a stick to 
me . So you’d commit murder on a woman who has been 
a second mother to you, would you! You’d brain me with 
a stick out of that wood-box ! Oh ! Oh ! ” She lifted her 
apron and covered her face. 

In a moment Billy was beside her. * ‘ Oh Missus Keeler, ’ ’ 
he pleaded, miserably. “ I didn’t say that. Don’t think 
I’d do anythin’ to hurt you, ’cause I wouldn’t. An’ I 
wouldn’t play no dirty trick on you. You’ve been good 
to me an’ I think a heap o’ you, even if you do cuff me 
sometimes. Mr. Spencer put up that basket himself while 
I was over to the cottage, gittin’ my supper.” 

Slowly the apron was lowered. Slowly the woman’s 
hands dropped to Billy’s shoulders and she gazed into his 
uplifted eyes. Then she did a thing which was quite char- 
acteristic of her. She bent and gave each of the wide grey 
eyes upraised to hers a resounding kiss. Then, roughly 
pushing him away, she reached for her shawl and hat 
hanging on the wall. 

“ You boys stay right here and keep fire under that 
kettle,” she commanded. “I’m goin’ to take that old 
Caleb Spencer’s sawdust back to him an’ give him a piece 
of my mind.” And picking up the basket she went out, 
banging the door behind her. 

The boys gazed at each other and Maurice’s chuckle 
echoed Billy’s, although it was raspy and hoarse. 


THE RUSE THAT FAILED 


7a 


“ Throat bumin’ yet? ” inquired Billy. 

“ You bet,” Maurice managed to answer. 

“ Well, you go along to the milkhouse an’ lick the cream 
off a pan of milk. It’ll settle that Injun turnip quick.” 

Maurice scooted for the back door. He returned in a 
little while with white patches of cream adhering to chin 
and nose. “ Gosh! ” he sighed gratefully, “ that was 
soothin’. ” 

“ What dye s’pose made Caleb Spencer put up that job 
on me? ” questioned Billy. “ I never fooled him any. I 
did cut some letters on his new bench, but he needn’t feel 
so sore at that.” 

“ Well, jest you wait till Ma asks him why he did it,” 
laughed Maurice, who now was almost normal again. 
“ Ma’s great on gettin’ explanations, she is.” 

Billy went down into his pocket and drew forth a furry 
object about the size of a pocket knife and held it under 
his chum’s eyes. 

“ Gollies! ” exclaimed Maurice. “ It’s your rabbit foot 
charm. Where d’you find it, Bill? ” 

“ Found it this mornin’ down by the pine grove near 
old Scroggie’s ha ’n ted house. Stood on this side of the 
creek an’ sent ol’ Moll into the grove. She brought it to 
me. She’s a great little dog, Moll. Now we’re ready to 
hunt ol’ Scroggie’s buried money an’ lost will.” 

“What! Tonight?” 

“ Sure. Do you want somebody else to stumble on it 
first? We’ve gotta hunt tonight an’ every night till we 
find it, that ’s all. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ But we can ’t go now. I dassent leave them preserves. 
If I do Mall skin me. Anyways, ain’t we goin’ to let 
Elgin an’ Fatty in on it, Bill? ” 

“ Naw, you know what they’d do. They’d let the cat 


74 


A SON OF COURAGE 


out o’ the bag sure. They’re all right fer light work seeh 
as swipin’ watermelon an’ helpin’ make a seine-haul but 
they ain’t no good at treasure an’ will huntin’. ; ’ 

“ Maybe you’re right,” Maurice said, “ but I’m goin’ t’ 
tell you I ain’t feelin’ any too much like prowlin’ ’round 
that ha’nted house this night er any other night.” 

Billy pushed his friend into a chair and stood before 
him. “ Now look here, Scarecat,” he said, “ you’re goin’ 
to help me find that money an’ will, an’ I’ll tell you why. 
You know what happened to Mr. Stanhope, the teacher, 
don’t you? He’s gone blind an’ has had to give up 
teachin’ the school, hasn’t he? ” 

Maurice nodded, his face grave. 

“ Well, what kind of a feller is he, anyway? Come, 
answer up.” 

“He’s a mighty fine feller,” cried Maurice enthusias- 
tically. 

“ You’re right, he is. Well, what’s he goin’ to do now? 
He can’t work, kin he? ” 

“ Gollies, no. I never thought — ” 

“ Well, it’s time you did think. Now you know that ol’ 
Scroggie left him everythin’ he owned, don't you? ” 

“ ’Course I do.” 

“ Only he can’t prove it, kin he? ” 

“No! Not without the will.” 

“Well, then? ” Billy sat down on a corner of the 
table and eyed his friend reproachfully. 

Maurice squirmed uneasily, then he said: “ ’Course, Bill, 
it’s up to you an’ me to find that will. But 111 be shot 
if I’d do what we’ll have to do fer anybody else in the 
world but him.” 

“ Say, here’s a piece of news fer you,” cried Billy. 
“ We’re goin’ to get ol’ Harry O’Dule to help us. He’s 


THE RUSE THAT FAILED 


75 


the seventh son of a seventh son. We’re goin’ over to his 
cabin to see him tonight.” 

“ Gee! Bill, we oughta find it if we get Harry to help, 
but I can’t see how I’m goin’ to get away,” said Maurice 
ruefully. 

Just here a step sounded on the gravel outside and a 
knock fell on the door. Maurice opened the door and in 
stepped Anson. 

He glanced suspiciously from one to the other of the 
boys, then said: “ Ma sent me to see what happened to 
you, Bill. She says come on home to your supper.” 

“ Had my supper,” Billy informed him. “ You go on 
back and tell Ma that.” 

“ You’ve gotta come, too.” 

‘ ‘ No, Anse, I promised Missus Keeler that me an’ Maurice 
would keep fire under that preservin’ kettle till she gits 
back from the store. I need the ten cents to buy fish 
hooks with, besides — ’ ’ 

“ Gee ! Bill, is she goin’ to give you ten cents fer helpin’ 
Maurice keep fire on? ” asked Anson eagerly. 

“ Well, she didn’t ’zactly promise she would, but — ” 

“ Say, fellers, let me stay with you an’ we’ll split three 
ways, eh? ” suggested Anson. 

“ No,” said Billy, with finality. 

“ ’Tain’t enough fer a three-way split,” said Maurice. 

“ Well, you can’t hinder me from stayin’, an’ I figger 
I’m in fer a third,” said Anson, seating himself doggedly 
near the stove. 

Billy’s face cracked into a grin which he was careful to 
turn from his step-brother. “ How’d you like to do all 
the firin’ an’ get all the reward, Anse? ” he suggested. 
“ I’ve got a milk-snake here that I want ’a get put safe 
away in the root-house afore Ma takes in the lantern. 


76 


A SON OF COURAGE 


Maurice 'll come along an’ help me stow him away.” 

4 4 All right, 111 stay an’ fire,” agreed Anson. “But 
remember,” as the other boys reached for their hats, “ I 
ain’t agoin’ to share up what Missus Keeler gives me with 
you fellers.” 

“ You’re welcome to keep all she gives you fer yourself,” 
said Billy. 

“ Sure,” said Maurice. “ She’ll likely hold somethin’ 
back fer me, anyway. Don’t ferget to keep a good fire on, 
Anse,” he admonished, as he followed Billy outside. 


CHAPTER VII 


THE RABBIT FOOT CHARM 

The place which old Harry O’Dule called home was a 
crumbling log cabin on the shore of Levee Creek, just on 
the border of the Scroggie bush. Originally it had been 
built as a shelter for sheep, but with the clearing of the 
land it had fallen into disuse. O’Dule had found it on 
one of his pilgrimages and had promptly appropriated it 
unto himself. Nobody thought of disputing his possession, 
perhaps because most of the good people of Scotia inwardly 
feared the old man’s uncanny powers of second sight, and 
the foreshadowing — on those who chose to cross him — of 
dire evils, some of which had been known to materialize. 
Old Harry boasted that he was the seventh son of a sev- 
enth son. 

“ It’s born under a caul was I,” he told them. “ An’ 
minny a mystery has been cleared up in ould Ireland be 
meself, I’m tellin’ ye.” 

At which some laughed and some scoffed. Deacon 
Ringold had sternly advised the old man to return to the 
country where black magic was still countenanced, as there 
was no place for it in an enlightened and Christian com- 
munity such as Scotia, a suggestion that old Harry took 
in seeming good humor. But the fact that the deacon lost 
two milk cows and four hogs, through sickness during the 
fortnight which followed, had caused considerable discus- 
sion throughout the settlement. 

O’Dule had cut a window in the cabin, installed an old 
stove, table and chairs, and succeeded in making the place 

77 


78 


A SON OF COURAGE 


home-like enough to suit his simple taste. To-night he stood 
by the stove, frying potatoes and humming an Irish song. 
On the table lay a loaf of bread and some butter in a 
saucer, while close beside it a coal oil lamp gave a smoky 
light to the room. In the center of the table reposed a 
huge blue-grey cat, its amber eyes on Harry and its fore- 
paws curled contentedly beneath its furry breast. All 
about the room hung the skins of wild animals — deer, 
bear, lynx and coon. A pile of skins lay in one corner. 
This was O’Dule’s bed. 

“Och! Billy O’Shune can’t ye whistle t’ me, 

Av the gurril ye loved on the Isle ’cross the sea — 

Share it’s weary I am av that drear, sorry song 
So stop liltin’, through tears, wid a visage so long — 

Come, it’s me ears a glad ditty would hear — 

Av love 'neath th’ skies av ould Ireland, dear — 

Come, let us be glad — both togither, me lad — 

There’s good fish in the sea as has iver been had — 

— Och, Billy O’Shune — 

That’s not much av a chune.” 

So hummed old Harry as he stirred the potatoes and 
wet his vocal chords, occasionally, from the jug at his feet. 

Suddenly a knock fell on the door. 

* ‘ In ye come,” invited the Irishman and there entered 
Billy and Maurice. 

4 4 Sit ye down, lads, sit ye down,” cried the hospitable 
Harry. “ Begobs, but it’s a fine brace av byes ye are, an’ 
no mistake. Wull ye be afther suppin’ a bit wid me? 
The repast is all but spread an’ it’s full welcome ye are, 
both.” 

“ We’ve had our supper,” said Billy. 4 4 Thought we’d 
like to see you fer a minute er two, Harry,” he added 
gravely, as he and his chum seated themselves. 


THE RABBIT FOOT CHARM 


79 


“ Alone, ’ ’ said Maurice, significantly. 

“ Faith an’ ain’t I alone enough to suit ye? ” laughed 
Harry. “ Would ye have me put the cat out, thin? Now, 
phwat is ut? ” 

The boys glanced at each other. “You tell him,” whis- 
pered Billy, but Maurice shook his head. “ No, you,” he 
whispered back. 

Billy braced himself and took a long breath. “ We’vo 
made up our minds t’ find old man Scrosgie ’s will,” he 
said. 

“ An’ money,” said Maurice. “We want you to help 
us, Harry.” 

“ God love us! ” ejaculated' Harry, dropping the knife 
with which he was stirring the potatoes and reaching for 
the demijohn. “ An’ fer why should ye be out on that 
wild goose chase, now? ” 

“ ’Cause we want Teacher Stanhope to have what 
belongs to him,” said Billy warmly. 

“ Do ye now? God love him but that was a hard slap 
in th’ face he got fer playin’ the man’s part, so ut was. 
Only this night did I say as much to Caleb Spencer. Ut’s 
meself would like t’ see him get what was his by rights, 
byes.” 

“ We knew that,” cried Billy, eagerly; “ that’s why we 
come to you, Harry. You say you’ve found buried treasure 
in Ireland; won’t you help us find the lost will an’ 
money? ” 

O’Dul? transferred the potatoes from the frying pan to 
a cracked plate. He sat down at the table and ate his 
supper without so much as another word. The boys 
watched him, fear in their hearts that the eccentric old 
Irishman would refuse their request. 

After a time Harry pushed his stool back from the table. 


80 


A SON OF COURAGE 


i( Byes,” he said, producing a short black pipe from his 
pocket. “It's lend ye a spade and lantern I’ll do an’ 
gladly; but it’s yerselves would surely not be axin’ me t’ 
test me powers ag’in a spirrut. Listen now. Old Scrog- 
gie’s ghost do be guardin’ his money, wheriver it lies. 
That you know as well as me. It’s frank I’ll be wid ye, 
an’ tell ye that ag’in spirruts me powers are as nuthin’. 
An’ go widin the unholy circle av the ha’nted grove to 
do favor t’ aither man ’er divil I’ll not.” 

“ But think of what it means to him,” urged Billy. 
44 Besides, Harry, I’ve got a charm that’ll keep ol’ Scrog- 
gie’s ghost away,” he added, eagerly. 

44 An’ phwat is ut? ” Old Harry’s interest was real. 
He laid his pipe down on the table and leaned towards 
Billy. 

44 It’s the left hind foot of a grave-yard rabbit,” said 
Billy, proudly exhibiting the charm. 

O ’Dole’s shaggy brows met in a frown. 44 Ut’s no good 
a ’tall, a ’tall,” he said, contemptuously. 4 4 Ut’s not aven a 
snake-bite that trinket wud save ye from, let alone a ghost.” 

Billy felt his back-bone stiffen in resentment. Then he 
noted that the milk snake, which he had thought snugly 
asleep in his coat pocket, had awakened in the warmth of 
the little cabin and slipped from the pocket and now lay, 
coiled and happy, beneath the rusty stove. He saw his 
opportunity to get back at 0 ’Dule for his scoffing. 

44 All right, Harry,” he said airily, 44 if tha*’s all you 
know about charms, I guess you haven’t any that ’ud help 
us mueh. But let me tell you that rabbit-foot charm kin 
do wonders. It’ll not only keep you from bein’ bit by 
snakes but by sayin’ certain words to it you kin bring a 
snake right in to your feet with it, an’ you kin pick it up 
an’ handle it without bein’ bit, too.” 


THE RABBIT FOOT CHARM 


81 


11 Oeh, it’s a brave lad ye are, Billy bye,” Harry 
wheezed, “ an’ a brave liar, too. Go on wid yer nonsense, 
now.’" 

“ It’s a fact, Harry,” backed Maurice. 

“ Fact,” cried O’Dule, angrily now. 1 11 Don’t ye be 
comin ’ to me, a siventh son av a siventh son, wid such non- 
sinse. Faith, if yon worthless rabbit-fut kin do phwat ye 
claim, why not prove ut t’ me now? ” 

“ An’ if we do,” asked Billy eagerly, “ will you agree 
to use your power to help us find the money an ’ will ? ’ ’ 

“ That I’ll do,” assented Harry, unhesitatingly. “ Gall 
up yer snake an’ handle ut widout bein’ bit, an’ I’ll help 
ye.” 

“ All right, I’ll do it,” said Billy. “ Jest turn the lamp 
down a little, Harry.” 

“ Me hands are a bit unsteady,” said Harry, quickly. 
“ We’ll l’ave the light be as ut is, Billy.” 

“ It ought ’a be dark,” protested Billy, “ but I’ll try it 
anyway.” He lifted the rabbit foot to his face and 
breathed some words upon it. Then in measured tones he 
recited : 

1 ‘ Hokey-pokey Bamboo Brake — 

Go an ’ gather in a snake — ’ ’ 

Slowly Billy lowered the charm and looked at Harry. 
The old man sat, puffing his short pipe, a derisive grin on 
his unshaven lips. 

“ It’s failed ye have, as I knowed ye wud,” he chuckled. 
“ Ye best be lavin’ now, both av ye, wid yer pranks.” 

‘ ‘ But, ’ ’ said Billy quickly, * ‘ the charm did work. It 
brought the snake, jest as I said it would.” 

‘ ‘ Brought ut ? Where is ut, thin ? ’ ’ Harry sat up 
straight, his little eyes flashing in fright. 


82 


A SON OF COURAGE 


“ It’s under the stove. See it? ” 

Harry bent and peered beneath the stove. “ Be the 
scales av the divil! ” he shivered, “ is ut a big, mottled 
snake I see, or have I got what always I feared I might 
get some day. Is ut the D. T.’s I’ve got, I wonder? How 
come the reptile here, anyhow, byes? ” 

“ You told me to bring it in, didn’t you? ” Billy 
inquired, mildly. 

“ Yis, yis, Billy. But hivins! ut’s little did I think that 
cat-paw av a charm had such power, ’ ’ groaned the wretched 
Irishman. “ Ut’s yourself said ut would let you handle 
reptiles widout bein’ bit. Thin fer the love ov hivin pluck 
yon serpent from beneath the stove an ’ hurl ut outside into 
the blackness where ut belongs.” 

Billy arose and moving softly to the stove picked up the 
harmless milk snake, squirming and protesting, from the 
warm floor. O’Dule watched him with fascinated eyes. 
The big cat had risen and with back fur and tail afluff 
spit vindictively as Billy passed out through the door. 

When he returned O’Dule was seated on the edge of the 
table, his feet on a stool. He was taking a long sup from 
the demijohn. 

“ Well, do you believe in my charm now? ” Billy asked. 

“ I do,” said Harry unhesitatingly. 

“ An’ you’ll help us, as you promised? ” 

“ Did ye iver hear av Harry O’Dule goin’ back on a 
promise? ” said the old man, reproachfully. “ Help you 
wull I shurely, an’ I’ll be tellin’ ye how. Go ye over t’ the 
corner, Billy, an’ pull up the loose board av the Sure. 
Ye’ll be findin’ a box there. Yis, that’s right. Now fetch 
ut here. Look ye both, byes.” 

Harry lifted the little tin box to his knees and opened 
it. From it he brought forth a conglomeration of articles. 


THE RABBIT FOOT CHARM 


83 


There were queer little disks of hammered brass and copper, 
an egg-shaped object that sparkled like crystal in the lamp- 
light, a crotch-shaped branch of a tree. As he handled 
those objects tenderly the old man’s face was tense and 
he mumbled something entirely meaningless to the watchers. 
Finally, with an exclamation of triumph, he brought forth 
a piece of metal the size and shape of an ordinary lead 
pencil. 

“ Look ye,” he cried, holding it aloft. “ The fairies’ 
magic arrer, ut is, an’ ut niver fails t’ fall on the spot 
where the treasure lies hidden. Foind Scroggie’s buried 
money ut would have long ago if ut wasn’t fer the ould 
man’s spirrut that roams the grove. As I told ye afore, 
ut’s no charm ag’in the spirruts av the departed, as yon 
grave-yard rabbit’s fut is.” 

“ But with the two of ’em,” cried Billy eagerly, “ we 
kin surely find the will, Harry.” 

“ It’s right true ye spake,” nodded Harry. 4 4 An’ 
mebbe sooner than we think. An’ ut’s the young t’acher 
wid the blindness that gets it all, ye say? ” 

“ or Scroggie left it all to him,” said Billy. 

“ Begobs, so I’ve heard before.” Harry scratched his 
head reflectively. 

“ Well, God love his gentle heart, ut’s himself now’ll 
hardly be carin’ phwat becomes o’ the money, let alone 
he gets possession av the thousand acre hardwoods, I’m 
thinkin’,” he said, fastening his eyes on Billy’s face. “ I’d 
be wishin’ the young t’acher to be ginerous, byes.” 

“ He will,” cried Billy, “ I know he will.” 

“ Thin God bless him,” cried Harry. “ Now grasp 
tight t’ yer rabbit fut, an’ we’ll be afther goin’ on our 
way t’ tempt Satan, over bey ant in the evil cedars.” 

Five minutes later the trio were out on the forest path, 


84 


A SON OF COURAGE 


passing in Indian file towards the haunted grove. The 
wind had risen and now swept through the great trees 
with ghostly sound. A black cloud, creeping up out of 
the west, was wiping out the stars. Throughout the forest 
the notes of the night-prowlers were strangely hushed. 
No word was spoken between the treasure-seekers until 
the elm-bridged creek was reached. Then old Harry 
paused, with labored breath, his head bent as though 
listening. 

“ Hist,” he whispered and Billy and Maurice felt their 
flesh creep. “ Ut’s hear that swishin’ av feet above, ye 
do? Ut’s the Black troup houldin’ their course ’twixt the 
scared earth an’ the storm. The witches of Ballyclue, ut 
is, an’ whin they be out on their mad run the ghosts av 
dead min hould wild carnival. Ut’ll be needin’ that rabbit- 
fut sure we wull, if the ha’nted grove we enter this night.” 


CHAPTER VIII 


LUCK RIDES THE STORM 

Beneath the shadow of the coming storm the forest 
gloom deepened to velvet blackness. Suddenly a tongue 
of lightning licked the tree-tops and a crash of thunder 
shattered the stillness. A few heavy rain-drops spattered 
on the branches above the heads of the waiting three. 
Billy and Maurice, a strange terror tugging at their heart- 
strings, waited for old Harry to give the word forward. 
But Harry seemed to be in no great hurry to voice such 
command. Fear had gripped his superstitious soul and 
the courage loaned him from the squat demijohn was fast 
oozing away. 

Above, the blue-white lightning zig-zagged and the boom 
of the thunder shook the earth. A huge elm shivered and 
shrieked as if in agony as a darting tongue of flame 
enwrapped it like a yellow serpent, splitting its heart in 
twain. 

Billy found himself, face down, on the wet moss. 
Maurice was tugging at his arm. The stricken tree had 
burst into flame, beneath the ghostly light of which path, 
creek and pine-grove stood out clear-limned as a cameo 
against a velvet background. Billy noted this as he sat 
dazedly up. He and Maurice were alone; old Harry had 
vanished. 

“ He’s gone,” Maurice answered his chum’s look. 
“ Took to his heels when the lightnin’ struck that elm. 
The shock knocked us both down. He was gone when I 
come to.” 


85 


86 


A SON OF COURAGE 


Billy grinned a wan grin and pressed his knuckles 
against his aching eyes. “So’s my milk-snake, ’ ’ he said. 
* ‘ Guess I spilled him out o ’ my pocket when I fell. Gee ! 
that was a close call. Say, MaKirice, ain ’t it queer though ? 
I was feelin’ mighty scared an’ trembly afore that bolt 
fell, but now I feel nervy enough to tackle any ghost. 
How ’bout you? ” 

“ By gosh! that’s jest how I feel, Bill. That lightnin’ 
knocked all the scare plumb out o’ me. I don’t like these 
no-rain sort of thunderstorms though,” he added. 
“ They’re always slashin’ out when they’re least 
expected.” 

“ Well, the lightnin’ part of this un’s about past us, 
Maurice. But the rain’s cornin’. Guess that ol’ elm’s 
done fer. She’s dead, though, else she wouldn’t burn 
like that. By hokey ! ” he broke off, ‘ * will you look 
here? ” 

He picked up something that glittered in the firelight, 
and held it up for his chum’s inspection. 

“ Old Harry’s fairy arrer,” gasped Maurice. “Oh say, 
Bill, ain’t that lucky? He must have lost it in his scram- 
ble to get away.” 

“ Likely. Now I move we go right over into that 
ha’nted grove. What you say? ” 

Maurice swallowed hard, “I’m blame fool enough fer 
anythin’ sinee I got knocked silly by that bolt,” he 
answered, “so I’m game if you are.” 

“ Watch out! ” warned Billy, grasping him by the arm 
and jerking him to one side, “ that struck elm is goin’ 
to fall.” A rainbow of flame flashed close before the 
boys, as the stricken tree crashed across the path, hurl- 
ing forth a shower of sparks as it came to earth. Then 
inky darkness followed and from the black canopy which 


LUCK RIDES THE STORM 


87 


a moment ago had seemed to touch the tree tops the rain 
fell in torrents^ 

“Bill, Oh Bill! where ’bouts are you? ” Maurice’s voice 
sounded muffled and far away to his chum’s ears 

“I’m right here,” he answered. 

“ Gollies ! but ain’t it dark ? I can’t see anythin’ of you, 
Bill.” 

* ‘ Ner me, either. I guess we ’ll have to give up the 
hunt fer t ’night, Maurice. Anyways, we don’t know jest 
how to work ol’ Harry’s fairy arrer.” 

“ No, we’ll have to find out. Say, Bill, where ’bouts 
is the path? ” 

“ Gee! how am I to know; it’s right here somewheres, 
though. ’ ’ 

“ I guess I’ve found it, Bill. Come over close, so’s I 
kin touch you, then we’ll be movin’ Tong. Hully gee! 
jbut I’m wet. Got both them charms safe? ” 

“ Right here in my two fists, Maurice.” 

“ Well, hang to ’em tight till we get away from this 
ha’nted grove. Ghosts don’t mind rain none — an’ he’s 
liable t’ be prowlin’ out. Say, can’t y’ whistle a bit, so’s 
it won’t be so pesky lonesome? ” 

Billy puckered up his lips, but his effort was a failure. 
“ You try, Maurice,” he said, “ I can’t jest keep the hole 
in my mouth steady long enough t’ whistle.” 

“ Gosh! ain’t I been tryin’,” groaned Maurice. “ My 
teeth won’t keep still a ’tall. Maybe I won’t be one glad 
kid when we get out ’a here.” 

For half an hour they groped their way forward, no 
further words passing between them. The heavy roar of 
the rain on the tree tops made conversation next to impos- 
sible. The darkness was so dense they were forced to 
proceed slowly and pause for breath after bumping vio- 


88 


A SON OF COURAGE 


lently against a tree or sapling. They had been striving 
for what seemed to both to be a long, long time to find the 
clearing when Billy paused in his tracks and spoke : “ It 's 
no use, Maurice. We’re lost.” 

Maurice sank weakly down against a tree trunk, and 
groaned. 

“ I guess we’ve struck into the big woods,” Billy 
informed him. “ Anyways, the trees are gettin’ thicker 
the further we go.” 

“ Gee! Bill, there might be wolves an’ bears in this 
woods,” said Maurice, fearfully. 

“ Sure there might but I guess all we kin do is take 
our chance with ’em.” 

“ Well, I’d rather take a chance with a bear than a 
ghost, wouldn’t you Bill? ” 

“Betcha, I would. Say Maurice,”’ he broke out 
excitedly, “ there’s a light cornin’ through the trees. See 
it? It’s movin’. Must be somebody with a lantern.” 

“ I see it,” Maurice replied in guarded tones. “ Bill, 
that light’s cornin’ this way, sure as shootin’.” 

“ Looks like it. Wonder who it kin be? Maybe some- 
body lookin’ fer us. 

The two boys crouched down beside a great beech. The 
light, which had not been a great distance from them when 
first sighted, was rapidly approaching. Billy grasped his 
chum’s arm. “ Look,” he whispered, “ there’s two of 
’em.” 

“ I see ’em,” his friend whispered back. “ Gosh! looks 
as though they’re goin’ to tramp right onto us.” 

However, the night-roamers of the forest did not walk 
into them. Instead they came very close to the boys and 
halted. The man who carried the lantern set it down on 
the ground and spoke in gruff tones to his companion, a 


LUCK RIDES THE STORM 89 

short, heavy-set man with a fringe of black beard on his 
face. 

“ I tell you, Jack, we’ll hide the stuff there. It’ll be 
safe as a church.” 

“ I say no, Tom,” the other returned, surlily. “ It 
won’t be safe there. Somebody’ll be sure to find it.” 

The other man turned on him angrily. “ Who’ll find 
it? ” he retorted. “ Don’t be a fool, Jack. You couldn’t 
pull anybody to that place with a loggin’ chain. It’s the 
safest spot in the world to hide the stuff, I tell ye. Besides, 
the boat orter be in in a few days, and we kin slip the 
stuff to Cap. Jacques without the boss ever knowin’ how 
far we’ve exceeded his orders.” 

“ All right,” gruffly assented his companion, “if you’re 
so cock sure, it suits me all right. Come on; let’s get 
out of this cussed woods. Remember we’ve got some work 
before us tonight.” 

The man named Tom picked up the lantern and moved 
on, cursing the rain and the saplings that whipped his 
face at every step. His pal followed without a word. 

The boys waited until the lantern’s glow grew hazy 
through the slackening rain, then they sprang up and fol- 
lowed. Three-quarters of an hour latfcr the trees began 
to thin. Unwittingly the strangers had guided them into 
the clearing. 

As they reached the open the rain ceased altogether. 
High above a few pale stars were beginning to probe 
through the tattered clouds. The men with the lantern were 
rapidly moving across the stumpy fallow, towards the 
causeway. 

“ Will we foller ’em, Bill? ” asked Maurice eagerly. 

Billy shook his head. “I’d sort o’ like to,” he said, 
slowly, “ jest to find out what game they’re up to, but I 


90 


A SON OF COURAGE 


guess if we know what’s good fer us we’ll go home an* 
take off these wet duds. Hard lookin’ customers, wasn’t 
they? ” 

“ Hard, I should say so! I’ll bet either one of ’em ’ud 
murder a hull family fer ten cents. Say, Bill, maybe 
they’re pirates; you heard what they said about a boat, 
didn’t you? ” 

“ Yep, I heard, but they ain’t pirates, ’cause they didn’t 
have no tattoo marks on ’em, er rings in their ears; but 
whoever they are they’re up to no good. They’re aimin’ 
to hide somethin’ somewheres, but jest what it is an’ where 
they intend hidin’ it there’s no way of tellin’; so come on, 
let’s get movin’.” 

In silence they made their way across the clearing to 
the road. “ Say, Bill,” said Maurice, as they paused to rest 
on the top rail of the fence, “ do you ’spose we best tell 
our dads about seein’ them men? ” 

“ Naw, can’t you see if we told our dads that, they’d 
want ’a know what you an’ me was doin’ out in Scroggie’s 
bush in the rain, at that hour of the night? No siree, we 
won’t say a word ’bout it.” 

“ Then s ’posin’ we try an’ find out something ’bout ’em 
fer ourselves, eh? ” 

“ Say, you give me a pain,” cried Billy. “ Don’t you 
’spose we’ve got all we kin do ahead of us now? ” 

“ Findin’ Scroggie’s money an’ will, you mean? ” 

“ Sure. Now shut up an’ let’s get home. I expect Ma’ll 
be waitin’ up to give me hail Columbia, an’ I guess you 
won’t be gettin’ any pettin’ from yourn, either.” 

“ I know what I’ll be gettin’ from mine, all right,” said 
Maurice, moodily. “ Say, Bill,” he coaxed, 4 4 you come 
along over by our place an’ smooth things over fer me, 
will you? You kin do anythin’ with Ma.” 


LUCK RIDES THE STORM 


91 


“ No,” said Billy, 44 I got to be movin , on.” 

44 But I ’ll get an awful hidin’ if you don’t. I don’t 
mind an ordinary tannin’ but a tannin’ in these wet pants 
is goin’ to hurt like fury. They’re stickin close to my legs. 
I might as well be naked an’ Ma she certainly does lay it 
on.” 

Billy laughed. 44 All right, I’ll come along, but I ain’t 
believin’ anythin’ I kin say to your Mall keep you from 
gettin’ it.” 

The boys slid from the fence, then leaped back as some- 
thing long and white rose from behind a fallen tree and, 
with a startled snort, confronted them. 

4 4 Gollies! ” ejaculated Billy. 44 It’s a hog. I thought, 
first off, it was a bear.” 

JVIaurice peered out from behind a tree. 44 Well, I’ll be 
jiggered! ” he exclaimed. 44 It’s our old sow. She’s been 
lost fer nigh onto two weeks, an’ Dad’s been huntin’ fer her 
everywhere. ” 

4 4 That so? Then we’ll drive her home.” 

44 Aw, say, Bill,” protested Maurice, 44 I’m tired an’ wet 
as a water-logged plank. Let her go. I’ll tell Dad, an’ 
he kin come after her tomorrow.” 

44 No, we ’ll drive her home now. I guess I know what’s 
best. Get on t’other side of her. Now then, don’t let her 
turn back! ” 

Maurice grumblingly did his share of the driving. It was 
no easy task to pilot that big, rangy sow into the safe 
harbor of the Keeler barnyard but done it was at last. 

44 Ma’s got the light burnin’ an’ the strap waitin’ fer 
her little boy,” chaffed Billy as they put up the barn-yard 
bars. 

Maurice, who had climbed the fence so as to get a glimpse 
of the interior of his home through a window, whistled 


92 


A SON OF COURAGE 


softly as his eyes took in the scene within. 

“ Say, Billy,” he cried, “ your Ma an' Pa’s there.” 

“ Gee whitticker! ” exclaimed Billy. “ I wish now I 
hadn’t promised you I’d come in. All right, lead on. Let’s 
get the funeral over with.” 

Without so much as another word the boys went up the 
path. 

“ If I don’t see you ag’in alive, Bill, good bye,” whis- 
pered Maurice as he opened the door. 

Mrs. Keeler, who was doing her best to catch what her 
neighbor was saying, lifted her head as the two wet and 
tired boys entered the room. 

* * There they be now, ’ ’ she said grimly. ‘ 1 The two worst 
boys in Scotia, Mrs. Wilson.” 

“ I believe you, Mrs. Keeler,” nodded her friend. “ Now 
then, where have you two drowned rats been tonight, 
Willium? ” 

Cobin Keeler, who was playing a game of checkers with 
Billy’s father, cleared his throat and leaned forward like 
a judge on the bench, waiting for the answer to his neigh- 
bor’s question. 

“We got ” commenced Maurice, but Billy pinched 

his leg for silence. 

“ I got track of your lost sow, Mr. Keeler, when I was 
cornin’ home from the store tonight,” he said. “Least- 
wise I didn’t know it was your sow but Maurice told me 
about yours bein’ lost. So after Mrs. Keeler went to 
give Mr. Spencer a call down we hired Anse to look after 
the preservin’ an’ went out to try an’ track her down.” 

Maurice, who had listened open mouthed to his chum’s 
narration, sighed deeply. “ We had an awful time,” he 
put in, only to receive a harder pinch for his pains. 

“ But you didn’t see her, did ye? ” Cobin asked eagerly. 


LUCK RIDES THE STORM 


93 


Disregarding the question, Billy continued: “ The 
tracks led us a long ways, I kin tell you. We got up into 
the Scroggie bush at last an’ then the rain come.” 

“ But we kept right on trackin — ” put in Maurice, 
eagerly. “ After the stars come out again, of course,” 
explained Billy, managing to skin Maurice’s shin with his 
boot-heel, “ an’ we found her — ” 

“ You found her? ” cried Cobin, leaping up. 

“ Jest half an hour ago,” said Billy. 

“ Good lads!” cried Cobin heartily, “ Ma, hear that? 
They found oP Junedy. Wasn’t that smart of ’em, an* 
in all that rain, too.” 

“ Who’d you say was agoin’ to soon die? ” Mrs. Keeler 
put her hand to her ear and leaned forward. 

“ I say the boys found the old sow , Ma ! ” Cobin shouted. 

“ They did? ” Mrs. Keeler turned towards Billy and 
Maurice, her face aglow. “ An’ was that what they was 
adoin’? Now I’m right sorry I spoke harsh. I am so. 
Ain’t you, Mrs. Wilson? ” 

“ Oh, I must say that Willium does do somethin’ worth 
while, once in a long while, ’ ’ returned her neighbor, grudg- 
ingly. “ But Anson, now — ” 

Mrs. Keeler broke in. ‘ ( Anson, humph ! Why, that boy 
had the nerve to say that I should give him ten cents fer 
watchin ’ the kettle while them two dear boys was out in the 
storm, huntin’ fer Pa’s sow. I give him a box on the ear 
instead an’ sent him home on the jump. Maybe I was a bit 
hasty but I was mad after havin’ to give that old Caleb 
Spencer a piece of my mind fer sendin’ me sawdust instead 
of groceries. I guess he won’t try that ag’in.” 

Billy moved towards the door. “ I’d best be gettin’ 
home,” he said, “ I’m awful wet.” 

‘ 4 Stay all night with Maurice,” invited Mrs. Keeler. 


94 


A SON OF COURAGE 


“ You an’ him kin pile right into bed now and I’ll bring 
you both a bowl of hot bread and milk. ’ ’ 

Billy glanced at his mother. 

“ You kin stay if your want to, Willium,” she said, 
“ only see that you are home bright and early in the 
momin’. Your Pa’ll want you to help hill potaters.” 

She stood up. “ Well, Tom, if you and Cobin are through 
with the game don’t start another. It’s late an’ time all 
decent folks was home abed.” 

Snug in Maurice’s corn-husk bed in the attic, the boys lay 
and listened for the door to open and close. Then Maurice 
chuckled. 

“ Gee! Bill, I could ’a knocked your head off fer makin’ 
me help drive ol’ Junefly home but now I see you knowed 
what you was doin’. Holy smoke! I wish’t I was as 
smart as you.” 

“ Go to sleep,” said Billy drowsily. 

Half an hour later when Mrs. Keeler carrying two bowds 
of steaming bread and milk ascended the stab’s Billy alone 
sat up to reach for it. 

“ Is Maurice asleep? ” whispered the woman. 

Billy nodded. 

“ Well, you might as well have both bowls then. I don’t 
like to see good bread an’ milk wasted.” 

She set the bowls down on the little table beside the bed, 
placed the lamp beside them, then leaning over tucked the 
blankets about the boys. 

4 4 No use tryin’ to wake Maurice,” she said as she turned 
to go. “ As well try to wake the dead. Remember, you 
boys get up when I call you.” 


CHAPTER IX 


MOVING THE MENAGERIE 

Billy and Maurice, taking the short cut to the Wilson 
farm across the rain-drenched fields next morning, were 
planning the day’s programme. 

“ Now that we’ve got ol’ Harry’s charm along with my 
rabbit-foot,” Billy was saying, “we ought ’a be able to 
snoop ’round in the ha’nted grove an’ even hunt through 
the house any time we take the notion. Maybe we’ll get 
a chance to do it to-day.” 

“ But, dam it all, Bill,” Maurice objected, “ there won’t 
be no ghost to lead the way to the stuff in the daytime.” 

“ Well, if we take a look over the place in daylight we’ll 
know the lay-out better at night, won ’t we ? Trigger Finger 
Tim did that most times, an’ he always got away clean. 
Supposin’ a ghost is close at your heels, ain’t it a good idea 
to have one or two good runways picked out to skip on? 
We’re goin’ through that ha’nted house in daylight, so you 
might as well make up your mind to that.” 

Maurice was about to protest further when the rattle of 
loose spokes and the beat of a horse’s hoofs on the hard 
road fell on their ears. 

“ That’s Deacon Ringold’s buck-board,” Billy informed 
his chum, drawing him behind an alder-screened stump. 
“ Say, ain’t he drivin’f Somebody must be sick at his 
place.” Then as the complaining vehicle swept into sight 
from around the curve, “ By crackey, Maurice, your Pa’s 
ridin’ with him.” 

Maurice scratched his head in perplexity. “ Wonder 

95 


96 


A SON OF COURAGE 


where he’s takin* Dad? It’s too late fer sheep-shearin ’ an’ 
too early fer hog-killin’; an’ that’s ’bout all Dad’s good 
at doin’, ’cept leadin’ the singin’ at prayer-meetin’. Won- 
der what’s up? Gee! the deacon is sure puttin’ his old 
mare over the road.” 

‘ 1 Keep quiet till they get past, ’ ’ cautioned Billy. 4 * Say ! 
we needn’t have been so blamed careful about makin’ our 
sneak if we’d knowed your Pa was away from home.” 

“ Oh, look, Bill,” said Maurice, “ they’re stoppin’ at 
your place.” 

The deacon had pulled up at the Wilson’s gate. “ He’s 
shoutin’ fer Pa,” Billy whispered, as a resounding “ Hello, 
Tom ! ’ ’ awoke the forest echoes. ‘ * Come on Maurice, let ’s 
work our way down along this strip o’ bushes, so’s we kin 
hear what ’s goin ’ on. ” 

The boys wriggled their way through the thicket of 
sumach, and reached a clump of golden-rod inside the road 
fence just as Wilson came out of the lane. 

“ Momin’, neighbors,” he greeted the men in the buck- 
board, ‘ ‘ won ’t you pull in ? ” 

“ No,” said the deacon, “ we’re on our way to Twin 
Oaks, Thomas. Thieves broke into Spencer’s store last 
night. We’re goin’ up to see if we can be of any use to 
Caleb. We’d like you to come along.” 

Wilson’s exclamation of surprise was checked by Cobin 
Keeler, whose long arm reached out and encircled him. He 
was lifted bodily into the seat and the buckboard dashed 
on up the road, the clatter of its loose spokes drowning the 
loud voices of its occupants. 

The boys sat up and stared at each other. 

“ You heard? ” Billy asked in awed tones. 

Maurice nodded. “ They said thieves at the store.” 
Forgotten, for the moment, was old Scroggie’s ghost and 


MOVING THE MENAGERIE 


97 


the buried treasure in this new something which promised 
mystery and adventure. 

“ Hully Gee! ” whispered BiJIy. 44 Ain’t that rippin’.” 

“ Ain’t it jest? ” agreed Maurice. 44 Say, Bill, there 
ain’t no law ag’in shootin’ robbers is there — store-robbers, 
I mean?” 

“ Naw, why should there be? That’s what you’re sup- 
posed to do, if you get the chance — shoot ’em, an’ get the 
reward.” 

44 What’s a reward? ” 

“ Why, it’s money, you ninny ! You kill the robbers an’ 
you get the ehurch collection an’ lots of other money be- 
sides. Then you’re rich an’ don’t ever have to do any 
work; jest fish an’ hunt an’ give speeches at tea-meetin’s 
an’ things.” 

44 Oh, hokey ! ain’t that great. How’d you come to know 
all that, Bill? ” 

44 Why I read it in Anson’s book, 4 Trigger-Finger Tim 
er Dead er Alive.’ Oh, it’s all hunky, I tell you.” 

44 But, Bill, how we goin’ to kill them robbers? ” 

44 Ain’t goin’ to kill ’em,” his friend replied. 44 Trig- 
ger-Finger Tim never killed his ; he took ’em all alive. All 
he did was crease their skulls with bullets, an ’scrape their 
spines with ’em, an’ when they come to they’d find them- 
selves tied hand an’ foot, an’ Trigger-Finger smokin’ his 
cigarette an’ smilin’ down on ’em.” 

44 Gollies! ” exulted Maurice. Then uncertainty in his 
tones, 44 A feller ’ud have to be a mighty good shot to do 
that though, Bill.” 

44 Oh shucks! What’s the use of thinkin’ ’bout that 
now? We’ve gotta catch them robbers first, ain’t we? ” 

44 Yep, that’s so. But how? ” 

Billy wriggled free of the golden-rod. 44 Come on over 
an’ help me move my menagerie an’ we’ll plan out a way.” 


98 


A SON OF COURAGE 


They climbed the fence and crossed the road to the lane- 
gate. 

“ Now, then,” said Billy, “ you scoot through the trees 
to the root-house, while I go up to the kitchen an’ sneak 
some doughnuts. Don’t let Ma catch a glimpse of you er 
she’ll come lookin’ fer me an’ set me to churnin’ er some- 
thin’ right under her eyes. An’ see here,” he warned, as 
Maurice made for the trees, 4 4 don’t you get to foolin’ 
with the snakes er owls, an’ you best keep out of ol’ Ring- 
do’s reach, ’cause he’s a bad ol’ swamp coon in some ways. 
You jest lay close till I come back.” 

Whistling soundlessly, Billy went up the path to the 
house. He peered carefully in through the screened door. 
The room was empty and so was the pantry beyond. Billy 
entered, tiptoed softly across to the pantry and filled his 
pockets with doughnuts from the big crock in the cupboard. 
Then he tip-toed softly out again. 

As he rounded the kitchen, preparatory to a leap across 
the open space between it and the big wood-pile, Mrs. Wil- 
son’s voice came to him, high-pitched and freighted with 
anger. 

“ You black, thievin’ passel of impudence, you! ” she 
was saying. “ If I had a stick long enough to reach you, 
you’d never dirty any more of my new-washed clothes.” 

On the top-most branch of a tall, dead pine, close beside 
the wood-pile, sat the tame crow, Croaker, his head cocked 
demurely on one side, as he listened to the woman’s right- 
eous abuse. Croaker could no more help filling his claws 
with chips and dirt and wobbling the full length of a line 
filled with snowy, newly-washed clothes than he could help 
upsetting the pan of water in the chicken-pen, when he saw 
the opportunity. He hated anything white with all his sin- 
ful little heart and he hated the game rooster in the same 
way. He was always in trouble with Ma Wilson, always 


MOVING THE MENAGERIE 


99 


in trouble with the rooster. Only when safe in the highest 
branch of the pine was he secure, and in a position to talk 
back to his persecutors. 

He said something now, low and guttural, to the woman 
shaking her fist at him in impotent anger. His voice was 
almost human in tone, his attitude so sinister that she shud- 
dered. “ That’s right, swear at me, too,” she cried, “ add 
insult to injury, you black imp! If it wasn’t fer bein’ 
scared of shootin’ myself I’d get the gun an’ shoot you, I 
would so ! ” 

Suddenly Croaker stretched himself erect. A soft 
whistle, so low as to be inaudible to the indignant woman 
but clear to his acute ears, had sounded from the far side 
of the wood pile. Pausing only long enough to locate the 
sound, Croaker spread his wings and volplaned down, 
emitting a hoarse croak of triumph almost in Mrs. Wilson’s 
face, as he swept close above her. 

“ Come here, you,” spoke a low voice as Croaker settled 
on the other side of the wood pile, and the crow promptly 
perched himself on Billy’s shoulder with a succession of 
throaty notes that sounded like crazy laughter, but which 
were really expressions of unadulterated joy. For this 
boy who had taken him from the nest in the swaying elm 
when he was nothing but a half-feathered, wide-mouthed 
fledgling, and had fed him, cared for him, defended him 
against cat, dog, rooster and human beings — for this 
boy alone Croaker felt all the love his selfish heart was 
capable of giving. 

And now as Billy carried him towards the root-house he 
recited the various adventures which had been his since 
they had parted, recited them, it is true, in hoarse unin- 
telligible crow-language, but which Billy was careful to 
indicate he understood right well. 


100 


A SON OF COURAGE 


“ So you did all that, did you? ” he laughed. “ Oh, 
but you’re a smart bird. But see here, if you go on the 
way you’re doin’, dirtyin , Ma’s clean clothes an’ abusin’ 
her like I heard you doin’, your light’s goin’ out sudden 
one of these days. Ma’s scared to shoot the ol’ gun her- 
self, but she’ll get Anse to do it. I guess I better shut 
you up on wash-momin’s after this.” 

“ What’s he been doin’ now, Bill? ” asked Maurice as 
Billy and the crow joined him beside the root-house. 

“ Oh, he’s been raisin’ high jinks with Ma ag’in,” ex- 
plained Billy. “ He will get his claws full o’ dirt an’ 
pigeon-toe along her line of clean clothes, as soon as her 
back’s turned.” 

“ Gosh! ain’t he a terror? ” Maurice exclaimed. “ Say, 
why don’t you put him in the menagerie' ” 

“ Maurice, you’ve got about as much sense as a wood- 
tick,” Billy replied in disgust. “ How long d’ye s’pose 
my snakes an’ bats an’ lizards ’ud last if I turned Croaker 
loose in there? ” 

“ Pshaw! Bill, he couldn’t hurt Spotba, the womper, 
could he? ” 

“Jest couldn’t he? I’ll take you down to the marsh 
some day an’ show you how quick he kin kill a womper.” 

“ Gollies! Is that so? Well he couldn’t hurt the black 
snake; that’s one sure thing.” 

“ No, it ain’t, ’cause he kin kill a black snake a sight 
easier than he kin a womper, an’ I’ll tell you why. Black- 
snakes have got teeth. They bite. But their backbone is 
easy brake. A womper hasn’t any teeth. He strikes with 
his bony nose. You know what one of them snakes kin 
do? You saw that big one, down in Patterson’s swamp 
lay open Moll’s face with one slash. They’re thick necked, 
an’ take a lot of killin’. This crow kin kill a black-snake 


MOVING THE MENAGERIE 1G1 

with, one slash of his bill. He has to choke the womper to 
death/ ’ 

Maurice scratched his head thoughtfully. “ Say, you 
know a lot about snakes an’ things, don’t you? ” he said 
admiringly. 

“ Maybe I do, but I ain’t tellin’ all I know,” said Billy. 

‘ ‘ What ’s the good ? Nobody ’ud believe me. ’ * 

“ What you mean, believe you! ” 

11 Why, if I said I saw a fight between a little brown 
water-snake no bigger ’n a garter snake, an’ a fish-hawk, an’ 
the snake licked the hawk, d’ye s’pose anyone ’ud believe 
that? ” 

“ I dunno. Maybe, an’ maybe not.” 

“ Supposin’ I said the snake hilled the hawk? ” 

‘ 4 Oh, gee whitticker ! nobody ’ud believe that, Bill. ’ ’ 

“ There now. Nobody ’ud believe it. An’ yet I saw it.” 

“ You saw it? ” Maurice, who could not think of ques- 
tioning his chum’s word, gasped in amazement. 

“Yep, I saw it last spring — in the Eau rice beds, it 
was. I was tryin’ to find a blue-winged teal’s nest. Saw 
the drake trail off an’ knowed the duck must be settin’ 
somewhere on the high land elose beside the pond. As I 
was standin’ still, lookin’ about, this little water snake 
come swimmin’ ’cross a mushrat run. Jest then I saw a 
shadder eross the reeds, an ’ a fish-hawk swooped down an ’ 
made a grab at the snake. The snake dived an’ come up 
close to shore. The hawk wheeled an’ swooped ag’in. This 
time the water was too shallow fer snakie to get clear away. 
The hawk grabbed him in his claws an’ started up with 
him. ‘ Goodbye, little snake,’ I thought, an’ jest then I 
noticed that the hawk was havin’ trouble; fer one thing, 
he wasn’t flyin’ straight, an’ he was strikin’ with his 
curved beak without findin’ anythin’. Pretty soon he 


102 


A SON OF COURAGE 


started saggin’ down to the reeds. I jumped into the punt 
an’ made fer the spot where I thought he’d come down. 
Jest as I got there he splashed into the shallow water. I 
stood up in the punt, an’ then I saw what had happened. 
The little water-snake had coiled round the hawk’s neck 
an’ had kept its head close under his throat. You know 
that a water snake has two little saw teeth, one on each 
side of the upper jaw. I’ve often wondered what good a 
pair of teeth like that could be to ’em, but I don’t any 
more, ’cause that little snake had cut that hawk’s throat 
with them snags an’ saved himself.” 

“ An’ so he got away! ” sighed Maurice. 

“ Well, he should have, but I didn’t let him. I thought 
I ’d like to own a snake as plucky as that, so I caught him — 
didn’t have no trouble, he was awful tired — an’ brought 
him up here to the menagerie.” 

Maurice whistled. “ Gee! Bill, you don't mean t’ tell 
me that water-snake you call Hawk-killer is him? ” 

“ Yep, that’s him. Now,” he cried tossing Croaker into 
a tree, “ I’ll tell you what we gotta do. We gotta move 
these pets down to that old sugar-shanty in our woods. 
Ma’s got so nervous with havin’ ’em here that I’m afraid 
Anse might take it in his head to let ’em out, er kill ’em. 
I’ve got ’em all boxed nice an’ snug. All I want you to do 
is help me carry ’em. We can do it in two trips. Ringdo, 
of course, ’ll stay along up here. Ma’s not scared of him 
like she is of the other things. Come along. ’ ’ 

He unpropped the root-house door and threw it open. 
Maurice hesitated on the threshold, peering into the 
darkness. 

“ Are you sure you’ve got ’em boxed safe, Bill? ” he 
asked, fearfully. 

“ Bet ye I am.” 


MOVING THE MENAGERIE 


103 


“ Then, here’s fer it, but I must say I’ll be glad when 
the job’s done,” shivered Maurice, following his chum into 
the blackness of the root-house. 

Croaker hopped to a lower branch and peered in after his 
master. Then, catching sight of a doughnut which had 
spilled from Billy’s pocket, he fluttered down to the ground, 
and with many caressing croaks proceeded to make a meal 
of it. 


/ 


CHAPTER X 


IN LOST MAN’S SWAMP 

The August days were passing swiftly, each fragrant 
dawn marking another step towards that inevitable some- 
thing which must be faced — the reopening of the Valley 
School by a new teacher. Billy’s heart saddened as the 
fields ripened and the woods turned red and gold. For 
once his world was out of tune. Maurice Keeler was sick 
with measles and Elgin Scraff lay ill with the same disease. 
Taking advantage of this fact, the Sand-sharkers had grown 
bold, some of the more venturesome of them going even so 
far as to challenge Billy to “ knock the chip off their 
shoulders.” 

Billy had not only accommodated the trouble-seekers in 
this regard but had nearly knocked the noses off their 
freckled faces as well, after which he had proceeded to 
lick, on sight, each and every Sand-sharker with whom his 
lonely rambles brought him in contact. But his victories 
lacked the old time zest He missed Maurice’s “ Gee! 
Bill, that left swing to his eye was a corker missed 
Elgin’s offer to bet a thousand dollars that Billy Wilson 
could lick, with one hand tied behind him, any two Sand- 
sharkers that ever smelled a smoked herrin’. Victory was 
indeed empty of glory. And so the glad days were sad 
days for Billy. It was an empty world. What boy in 
Billy’s place would not have been low-spirited tinder like 
conditions? What boy would not have paused, as he was 
doing now, to itemize his woes? 

He was seated on a stump in the new clearing which 
104 


IN LOST MAN’S SWAMP 


105 


sloped to Levee Creek, Ingers looked about one knee, bat- 
tered felt hat pulled over his eyes. The green slope at his 
feet lay half in the sunlight, half in the shadow. Across 
from a patch of golden-rod, the cock bird of a fox-scattered 
quail-covey whistled the “ All’s Well ” call to the birds 
in hiding. Ordinarily Billy would have answered that call, 
would have drawn the brown, scuttling birds close about 
him with the low-whistled notes he could produce so well ; 
but today he was oblivious to all save his thoughts. 

Two weeks had passed since the robbery of the Twin 
Oaks store and that which he and Maurice had planned to 
do towards finding the Scroggie will and capturing the 
thieves had, through dire necessity, been abandoned. Sick- 
ness had claimed Maurice just when he was most needed. 
For days Billy had lived a sort of trancelike existence; 
had gone about acting queerly, refusing his meals and 
paying little attention to anybody or anything. 

It had become a regular thing for his father to say each 
morning, “ I guess you ain’t feelin’ up to much today, 
Billy; so all you have to do is watch the gap and water 
the cattle ” ; which was quite agreeable to Billy, because 
it gave him ail opportunity to be by himself. Men who 
sit in the shadow of irrevocable fate are always that way ; 
they want to be left alone — murderers on the eve of their 
execution, captains on wrecked ships, Trigger Finger Tim, 
who was to be shot at sunrise, hut wasn’t. 

Billy wanted to shadow old Scroggie ’s ghost and so dis- 
cover the will; he wanted to seek out the robbers of the 
Twin Oaks store and earn a reward; he wanted Maurice 
Keeler with him; he wanted to hear Elgin Scraff’s laugh. 
But all this was denied him. And now a new burden had 
been thrust upon him, compared with whioh all his other 
woes seemed trivial. Old Scroggie’s namesake and ap- 


106 


A SON OF COURAGE 


parent heir had turned up again. Billy had seen him with 
his own eyes; with his own ears had heard him declare 
that he intended to erect a saw-mill in the thousand-acre 
forest. This meant that the big hardwood wonderland 
would be wiped away and that Frank Stanhope would 
never inherit what was rightfully his. 

It seemed like an evil dream, but Billy knew it was no 
dream. Scroggie, astride a big bay horse, had passed him 
while he was on his way to the store wfith a basket of eggs 
for his mother, and he had pulled in at the store just as 
Deacon Ringold had taken the last available space on the 
customers’ bench outside, and Caleb Spencer had come to 
the door to peer through the twilight in search of the 
Clearview stage, which was late. Noticing the stranger 
on horseback Caleb had hurried forward to ask how best 
he could serve him. 

Hidden safely behind a clump of cedars Billy had 
watched and listened. He had heard Scroggie tell the store- 
keeper that he and his family had come to Scotia to stay 
and that he intended to cut down the timber of the big 
woods. He had then demanded that Spencer turn over to 
him a certain document which it seemed old man Scroggie 
had left in Caleb’s charge some months before his death. 
Billy had seen Spencer draw the man a little apart from 
the others, who had gathered close through curiosity, and 
had heard him explaiii that the paper had been taken 
from his safe on the night of the robbery of his store. 
Scroggie had, at first, seemed to doubt Caleb’s word; then 
he had grown abusive and had raised his riding. whip 
threateningly. Here Billy, having heard and seen quite 
enough, had acted. Placing his basket gently down on 
the sward he had picked up an egg and with the accuracy 
bom of long practice in throwing stones, had sent it crash- 


IN LOST MAN’S SWAMP 


107 


ing into Scroggie ’s face. Gasping and temporarily blinded, 
Scroggie had wheeled his horse and galloped away. 

But today Billy, musing darkly, knew that Scroggie 
would do what he had said he would do. The big woods 
was his, according to law; he could do as he wished with 
it, and he would wipe it out. 

With a sigh, Billy slid from the stump and stood look- 
ing away toward the east. What would Trigger Finger 
Tim do in his place? When confronted by insurmount- 
able obstacles Trigger Finger had been wont to seek excite- 
ment and danger. That’s what he, Billy, would do now. 
But where was excitement and danger to be found? Ah, 
he knew — Lost Man’s Swamp ! 

Billy’s right hand went into a trouser’s pocket; then 
nervously his left dived into the other pocket. With a 
sigh of relief he drew out a furry object about the size 
of a pocket-knife. 

“ 01’ Rabbit-foot charm,” he said, aloud. “ I jest 
might need you bad today.” Then he turned and walked 
quickly across the fallow toward the causeway. 

Some three miles east of the imaginary line which divided 
the Settlement from the outside world, on the Lake Shore 
road, stood a big frame house in a grove of tall walnut 
trees. It was the home of a man named Hinter — a man 
of mystery. Before it the lake flashed blue as a king- 
fisher’s wing through the cedars; behind it swept a tangle 
of forest which gradually dwarfed into a stretch of swamp- 
willow and wild hazel-nut bushes, which in turn gave place 
to marshy bog-lands. 

Lost Man’s Swamp, so called because it was said that 
one straying into its depths never was able to extricate 
himself from its overpowering mists and treacherous 
quicksands, was lonely and forsaken. It lay like a fester- 


108 


A SON OF COURAGE 


ing sore on the breast of the world — black, menacing, 
hungry to gulp, dumb as to those mysteries and tragedies 
it had witnessed. It was whispered that the devil made 
his home in its pitchy ponds, which even in the fiercest 
cold of winter did not freeze. 

For Billy, who knew and understood so well the sweep- 
ing wilderness of silence and mysteries, this swamp held 
a dread which, try as he might, he could not analyze. On 
one other occasion had he striven to penetrate it, but as if 
the bogland recognized in him a force not easily set aside, 
it had enwrapped him with its deadly mists which chilled 
and weakened, torn his flesh with its razor-edged grass and 
sucked at his feet with its oozy, dragging quicksands. He 
had turned back in time. For two weeks following his 
exploit he had lain ill with ague, shivering miserably, silent, 
but thinking. 

And now he was back again; and this time he did not 
intend to risk his life in those sucking sands. From a 
couple of dead saplings, with the aid of wild grape-vines, 
he fashioned a light raft which would serve as a support 
in the bog, and carry his weight in the putrid mire beyond. 
Strange sounds came to his ears as he worked his way 
across the desolate waste toward the first great pond — 
scurrying, rustling sounds of hidden things aroused from 
their security. Once a big grey snake stirred from torpor 
to lift its head and hiss at him. Billy lifted it aside with 
his pole and went on. 

Great mosquitoes whined about his head and stung his 
neck and ears. Mottled flies bit him and left a burning 
smart. The saw-like edges of the grass cut his hands and 
strove to trip him as he pushed his improvised raft for- 
ward. Once his foot slipped on the greasy bog, and the 
quicksands all but claimed him. But he pushed on, reach- 


IN LOST MAN’S SWAMP 


109 


ing at Last the black sullen shallows, putrid and ill-smelling 
with decayed growth, and alive with hideous insects. 

Great, black leeches clung to the slimy lily-roots; water 
lizards lay basking half in and half out of the water, or 
crept furtively from under-water grotto to grotto. And 
there were other things which Billy knew were hidden from 
his sight — things even more loathsome. For the first 
time in his life he experienced for Nature a feeling akin 
to dread and loathing. It was like a nightmare to him, 
menacing, unreal, freighted with strange horrors. 

One thing Billy saw which he could not understand. The 
greasy surface of the shallow pond was never still, but 
bubbled incessantly as porridge puffs and bubbles when it 
boils. It was as if the slimy creatures buried in the oozy 
bottom belehed forth their poisonous breath as they stirred 
in sleep. 

So here lay the reason that the swamp-waters never 
froze even when winter locked all other waters fast in 
its icy clutch! What caused those air bubbles, if air 
bubbles they were ? 

At last, sick and dizzy, he turned from the place and 
with raft and pole fought his way back to the shore. Never 
again, he told himself, would he try to fathom further what 
lay in Lost Man’s Swamp. Weary and perspiring, he 
climbed the wooded upland. He turned and dipped into 
the willows, intending to take the shortest way home 
through the hardwoods. On top of the beech knoll he 
paused for a moment to let his eyes rest on the big house 
in the walnut grove. In some vague way his mind con- 
nected its owner with that dead waste of stinking marsh. 
Why, he wondered, had Hinter chosen this lonely spot 
on which to build his home ? As he turned to strike across 
the nods of woods between him and the causeway the man 


110 


A SON OF COURAGE 


about whom he had just been thinking stepped out from 
a clump of hazel-nut bushes directly in his path. 

“ Why, hello, Billy/ ’ he said pleasantly. “ Out cap- 
turing more wild things for the menagerie ? ’ ’ 

Hinter possessed a well modulated voice whose accent 
bespoke refinement and education. He had come into the 
Settlement about a year ago from no one knew where, 
apparently possessed of sufficient money to do as he pleased. 
An aged colored woman kept house for him. He held aloof 
from his neighbors, was reticent in manner, but nothing 
could be said against him. He led an exemplary if some- 
what secluded life, gave freely to the church which he 
never attended, and was respected by the people of Scotia. 
With the children he was a great favorite. He was a tall 
man, gaunt and strong of frame and well past middle age. 
His face was grave and his blue eyes steady. He was fond 
of hunting and usually wore — as he was wearing today — 
a suit of corduroys. He kept a pair of ferocious dogs, why 
nobody knew, for they never accompanied him on his 
hunts. 

He smiled now as he noted Billy’s quick look of appre- 
hension. 

“ No, Billy/’ he assured the boy, “ Sphinx and Dexter 
aren’t with me today, so you have nothing to fear from 
them. I doubt if they would hurt you, anyway,” he added. 
u You can handle most dogs, I am told.” 

“ I’m not afraid of no dog. Mr. Hinter,” said Billy, 
“ but I’ve been told your dogs are half wolf. Is that so? ” 

Hinter laughed. 4 4 Well, hardly,” he returned. “ They 
are thoroughbred Great Danes, although Sphinx and Dexter 
both have wolf natures, I fear.” 

“ Is that why people don’t go near your place, ’cause 
they’re scared of the dogs? ” Billy asked. 


IN LOST MAN’S SWAMP 


111 


Hinter ’s face grew grave. “ Perhaps,” he answered. 
“ I hope it is.” 

“ Then why don’t you get rid of ’em? ” 

Hinter shook his head. “ Nobody would have them, 
they ’re too savage ; and I haven ’t the heart to make away 
with them, because they are fond of me. I’ve had those 
dogs a long time, Billy.” 

‘ ‘ I understan ’, ’ ’ said Billy, sympathetically. 

Hinter put his hand in his coat pocket and drew out 
an ivory dog-whistle. “ Would you like to know them, 
Billy? ” he asked, his keen eyes on the boy’s face. 

“ I wouldn’t mind,” said Billy. 

Hinter put the whistle to his lips and sent a warbling 
call through the woods. “ Stand perfectly still,” 1 he said, 
as he placed the whistle back in his pocket. “ I won’t let 
them hurt you. Here they come now.” 

The next instant two great dogs plunged from the thicket, 
their heavy jaws open and dripping and their deep eyes 
searching for their master and the reason for his call. 

Standing with feet planted wide Billy felt his heart beat 
quickly. “ Easy, Sphinx! ” Hinter cried, as the larger 
of the two sprang toward the boy. Immediately the dog 
sank down, the personification of submission ; but it’s blood- 
shot eyes flashed up at Billy and in them the boy glimpsed 
a spirit unquelled. 

“ Be careful, Billy. Don’t touch him! ” warned Hinter, 
but he spoke too late. Billy had bent and laid his hand 
gently on the dog’s quivering back. The low growl died in 
the animal’s throat. Slowly his heavy muzzle was lifted 
until his nose touched Billy’s cheek. Then his long flail- 
like tail began to wag. 

“ Boy, you’re a wonder! ” Hinter cried. “ But you 
took a terrible chance. Dexter! ” he said to the other 


112 A SON OP COURAGE 

dog, 44 don’t you want to be friends with this wild-animal 
tamer, too? ” 

Billy, his arm about Sphinx’s neck, spoke. 44 Come, ol’ 
feller; come here,” he said. 

The great dog rose and came slowly across to him. 
44 Uood boy ! ” Billy slapped him roughly on the shoulder, 
and he whined. 

44 Well, it’s beyond me,” confessed Hinter. 44 I’ve heard 
that you could handle dogs, young fellow, but I didn’t 
think there was anybody in the world besides myself who 
could bring a whimper of gladness from that pair. Now 
then, Dexter ! Sphinx ! away home with you. ’ ’ Obediently 
the big dogs wheeled back into the thicket. 

Billy started to move away. “ I must be gettin’ home,” 
he said. 4 4 The cows ’ll be waitin ’ to be watered. ’ ’ 

44 Well, I’ll just walk along with you as far as the 
Causeway,” said Hinter. 44 My saddle-horse has wandered 
off somewhere. I have an idea he made for Ringold’s 
slashing. ’ ’ 

He fell in beside Billy, adjusting his stride to the shorter 
one of the boy. In silence they walked until they reached 
a rise of land which had been cleared of all varieties of 
trees except maples. Sap-suckers twittered as they hung 
head downward and red squirrels chattered shrilly. In a 
cleared spot in the wood, beside a spring-fed creek, stood 
a sugar-shanty, two great cauldrons, upside down, gleaming 
like black eyes from its shadowy interior. A pile of wooden 
sap-troughs stood just outside the shanty door. 

Billy ’s eyes brightened as they swept the big sugar-bush. 
Many a spicy spring night had he enjoyed here, 44 sugarin’ 
off” — he and Teacher Stanhope. The brightness faded 
from his eyes and his lip quivered. Never again would 
the man who was boy-friend to him point out the frost- 


IN LOST MAN'S SWAMP 


113 


cleared stars that swam low down above the maples and 
describe to him their wonders. Those stars were shut out 
from him forever, as were the tints of skies and flowers and 
all glad lights of the world. 

Hinter ’s voice brought him back to himself. “ He is 
blind, they tell me, Billy." 

Billy gazed at him wonderingly. “ How did you know 
I was thinkin’ of him? ” he asked. 

Hinter smiled. “ Never mind," he said gently. “ And 
how is he standing it? ” 

A spasm of pain crossed the boy’s face. “ Like a man," 
he answered shortly. 

Hinter ’s eyes fell away from that steady gaze. Billy 
turned towards the log-span across the creek, then paused 
to ask suddenly : ‘ ‘ Mr. Hinter, who owns that Lost Man ’s 
Swamp? Do you? " 

The man started. “ No," he answered, I don’t own it 
exactly, but I hope to soon. It is part of the Scroggie 
property. I am negotiating now with Scroggie ’s heir for 
it. It is useless, of course, but I desire to own it for rea- 
sons known only to myself." 

‘ 4 But supposin ’ ol ’ Scroggie ’s lost will comes to light ? ’ ’ 

“ Then, of course, it will divert to Mr. Stanhope," 
answered Hinter. “ I must confess," he added, “ I doubt 
very strongly if Mr. Scroggie ever made a will." 

Billy was silent, busy with his own thoughts. They 
crossed the bridge, passed through a beech ridge and de- 
scended a mossy slope to the Causeway fence. As they sat 
for a moment’s rest on its topmost rail, Hinter spoke 
abruptly. ‘ * I saw you fighting your way across the swamp 
this afternoon, Billy. Weren’t you taking a useless risk? " 

Billy made no reply. 

“ You are either a very brave boy or a very foolish 


114 


A SON OF COURAGE 


one,” said Hinter. “ Will you tell me what prompted 
you to dare what no other person in the Settlement would 
dare? Was it simply curiosity? ” 

“ I guess maybe it was,” Billy confessed. “ Anyways 
I’ve got all I want of it. It’ll be a long time afore you 
see me there ag’in.” 

Hinter ’s sigh of relief was inaudible to the boy. “ That’s 
a good resolve,” he commended. “ Stick to it; that swamp 
is a treacherous place.” 

“ It’s awful,” said Billy in awed tones. “ I got as far 
as the first pond. It was far enough for me.” 

“ You got as far as the pond ! ” Hinter cried in wonder. 
The eyes turned on Billy’s face were searching. “ And 
you found only a long shallow of stagnant, stinking water. 
I’ll be bound,” he laughed, uneasily. 

“ I found — ” Billy commenced, his mind flashing back 
to the bubbling geysers of the pond — then chancing to 
catch the expression in Hinter ’s face he finished, “ jest 
what you said, a big pond of stinkin’ dead water, crawlin’ 
with all kinds of blood-suckers an’ things.” 

He leaped from the fence. “ Good bye,” he called back 
over his shoulder. “ I hear old Cherry bawlin’ fer her 
drink.” 

Hinter was still seated on the fence when Billy turned 
the curve in the road. “ I wonder what he wants of Lost 
Man’s Swamp,” mused the boy. “ Ain’ I wonder what 
he’s scared somebody ’ll find there? ” 


CHAPTER XI 


EDUCATING THE NEW BOY 

As Billy rounded a curve in the road he met the cattle. 
Anson was driving them. “You needn ’t mind turnin ’ back, 
Bill,” he said. “ I don’t mind waterin’ ’em fer you.” 

Billy whistled. “ Gosh! you’re gettin’ kind all at once, 
Anse,” he exclaimed. 

“ I don’t mind doin’ it,” Anse repeated. He kept his 
face averted. Billy, scenting mystery, walked over to him 
and swung him about. Anson’s lip was swollen and one 
eye was partly closed and his freckled face bore the marks 
of recent conflict. 

“ Gee whitticker ! ” gasped Billy, “ you must been havin’ 
an argument with a mule. Who give you that black eye 
an’ split lip, Anse? ” 

His brother hung his head. “You needn’t go to rubbin’ 
it in, ’ ’ he whined ; “ I didn ’t have no chance with him. He 
piled on me from behind, when I wasn ’t lookin ’. ’ ’ 

4 4 Who piled on you from behind ? ’ ’ 

“ That new boy; his name’s Jim Scroggie. His dad’s 
rented the Stanley house on the hill.” 

“ Likely story that about his pilin’ on you from behind,” 
scoffed Billy. “You met him on the path an’ tried to get 
gay with him, more like, an’ he pasted you a few. You 
shouldn’t hunt trouble, Anse; you can’t fight, an’ you know 
it. What’s this new boy like? ” he asked curiously. 

* 4 Oh, you ’ll find that out soon enough, ’ ’ promised Anson. 
44 He told me to tell you that he would do the same thing 
to you first chance he got.” 


115 


116 


A SON OF COURAGE 


“ Oh, no, he didn’t neither,” laughed Billy. 11 He can’t 
be that foolish. ’ ’ 

“You wait till you size him up,” said Anson. “ He’s 
taller ’n you are an’ heavier, too. Oh, you’ll have your 
hands full when he tackles you, Mister Scrapper-Bill.” 

Billy pinched off a fox-tail stock and chewed it thought- 
fully. “ Maybe,” he said, cheerfully. “ He certainly 
tapped you some, but then you’re always huntin’ trouble, 
an’ it serves you right.” 

‘ ‘ Listen to me ! ” Anson cried. * ‘ He made all the trou- 
ble, I tell you. All I did was tell him not to throw clubs 
at Ringdo — ” 

“ What! Was he throwin’ clubs at my coon? ” Billy 
shouted. 

“ You bet he was. Had Ringdo up a tree an’ was doin’ 
his best to knock him out.” 

Billy spit out the fox-tail. “ Where’s this feller Scroggie 
now? ” he asked, in a business-like tone. 

“ I dunno. I s’pose he’s prowlin’ ’round the beech 
grove, up there. He said he intended lickin’ every boy in 
this settlement on sight. You best not go lookin’ fer him, 
Bill. I don’t want ’a see you get beat up on my account. ” 

“ Well you needn’t worry; if I get beat up it won’t be 
on your account, I kin tell you that. I don’t aim to let any- 
body throw clubs at my pets, though. You drive the cattle 
on down; I’m goin’ up to the grove.” 

A gleam of satisfaction lit Anson’s shifty eyes. 44 All 
right,” he said shortly, and went off after the herd. 

Billy climbed the rail fence and crossed the basswood 
swale to the highland. He approached the beech grove 
cautiously and peered about him. Seated on a log at the 
lower end of a grassy glade was a boy about his own age, 
a boy with round, bullet head poised on a thick neck set 
between square shoulders. 


EDUCATING THE NEW BOY 


117 


Billy, taking his measure with one fleeting glance, stepped 
out from the trees. Simultaneously the strange boy rose 
slowly, head lowered, fists elenched. There was nothing 
antagonistic in Billy’s attitude as he surveyed the new boy 
with serious grey eyes. That expression had fooled more 
than one competitor in fistic combat, and it fooled Jim 
Scroggie now. “ He’s scared stiff,” was the new boy’s 
thought, as he swaggered forward to where Billy stood. 

“ I’ve been waitin’ for you and now I’m goin’ to lick 
you, ’ ’ he said. 

Billy eyed him appraisingly. He did look like a tough 
proposition, no doubt about that. His face was round, 
flat, small-featured. “ That face ’ll stand a lot of pum- 
melin’,” Billy told himself, and as he noted the heavy ohin, 
thrust antagonistically forward, “ no use bruisin’ my 
knuckles on that,” he decided. 

“ You heard what I said, didn’t you?” growled the 
challenger. “I’m goin’ to lick you.” 

Billy grinned. He had caught the gasp at the end of the 
speaker’s words; now he knew where lay the stranger’s 
weak spot — his wind! 

“ Burt I ain’t wantin’ to fight,” Billy returned gently. 

“ Why? scared? ” 

“ Nice boys don’t fight.” Billy shifted his feet uneasily, 
the movement bringing him a step or two closer to the other. 

“Bah! mommie’s baby boy won’t fight?” taunted the 
eager one. “ But by gollies! I’m goin’ to make you,” he 
added, scowling fiercely. 

Billy wanted to laugh, but he was too good a ring-general 
to give way to his feelings. Instead, he shifted his feet 
again, thereby getting within reaching distance of the one 
so anxious for battle. 

“ Now, then,” declared Scroggie, tossing his hat on the 


118 


A SON OF COURAGE 


sward and drying his moist palms on his trouser-legs, “ I’m 
goin’ to black your eyes and pummel the nose off your 
face. ’ ’ 

The last word was drowned in a resounding ‘ 4 smack. ’ ’ 
Billy had delivered one of his lightning, straight-arm 
punches fair on the sneering lips of the new boy. Scroggie 
staggered back, recovered his balance, and threw himself on 
the defensive in time to block Billy’s well-aimed right to 
the neck. 

“ So that’s your game, is it? ” he grunted. “ Here’s a 
new one for you then.” That “ new one ” was a veritable 
* ‘ hay-maker. ’ ’ Had it landed where it was intended to land 
the fight must have ended then and there. But it didn’t. 
Billy saw it coming and ducked. 

Scroggie rushed, managing to get in a stiff jab to Billy’s 
body and receiving in return one which promptly closed 
one of his small optics. He struck out wildly, but Billy was 
prancing six feet away. Scroggie’s swollen and bleeding 
mouth twisted in a grin. “ Oh, I’ll get you,” he promised. 
“ Stall if you want ’a, it’s all one to me. You won’t find 
me sleepin’ again, I promise you.” 

Billy advanced in a crouching attitude. His eyes were on 
Scroggie’s uninjured eye and Scroggie, now grown wary, 
read that look as Billy intended he should. Older fighters 
have made the same mistake that Scroggie made. As Billy 
leaped in Scroggie raised his guard to his face and Billy’s 
right and left thudded home to the flabby stomach of his 
adversary. 

With a gasp Scroggie went to earth, where he lay writh- 
ing. After a time he struggled to a sitting posture. 

“ Got enough? ” asked Billy pleasantly. 

The vanquished one nodded. He had not as yet recovered 
his breath sufficiently to speak. When at last he was able 


EDUCATING THE NEW BOY 


119 


to draw a full breath, he said : ‘ ‘ Say, you trimmed me all 
right, all right.” 

Billy grinned. 

‘ ‘ Who are you, anyway ? ’ ’ asked Scroggie as he got grog- 
gily to his feet. 

“I’m the feller that owns the coon you tried to club to 
death,” Billy answered. 

Scroggie ’s mouth fell open in surprise. “ I didn’t try to 
kill any coon,” he denied. “ I saw one but it wasn’t me 
that clubbed it; it was a tall, sandy-haired feller with a 
squint eye. I asked him what he was tryin’ to do and he 
told me to dry up and mind my own business. I had to 
give him a lickin’. He went off blubberin’ ; said if I wasn’t 
too scared to stick around he’d send a feller over who would 
fix me. So I stayed.” 

‘ ‘ I wish you had licked him harder ’n you did, ’ ’ frowned 
Billy. 

“ Know him? ” 

“ Well, I do — an’ I don’t. He’s my half-brother an’ a 
sneak if ever there was one. He lied about you to me — 
so ’s I ’d fight you. ’ ’ 

“ And what’s your name? ” 

“ Billy Wilson.” 

Scroggie stared. “ I’ve heard of you,” he said, “an’ 
the feller who told me you could lick your weight in wild- 
cats wasn’t far wrong. You had me fooled, though,” he 
laughed. “I swallowed what you said about nice boys not 
fightin’, swallowed it whole. Oh, Moses! ” 

Billy sat down on a stump. “ I don’t bear no grudge, 
do you ? ” he asked. 

“ No, I ’m willin’ to shake. ” Scroggie extended his hand. 

“ Your name’s Scroggie, ain’t it?” Billy asked. 

“ Yep, Jim Scroggie.” 


120 


A SON OP COURAGE 


“ Your Dad’s goin’ to cut down the Scroggie woods, 
I hear? ” 

“Yep, if he can get his price for the timber.’ ’ 

Billy sat looking away. His grey eyes had grown somber. 
“ See here,” he said suddenly, “ do you know that old man 
Scroggie left a will? ” 

“ Dad says not,” the other boy replied. 

“ Well, then, he did; an’ in that will he left his woods 
an’ money to Mr. Stanhope, my teacher.” 

“ If that’s so, Dad has no right to that woods,” said Jim. 

“ But supposin’ the will can’t be found? ” Billy looked 
the other boy in the face and waited for the answer. 

“ Why, I can’t see that that ought ’a make any differ- 
ence, ” Scroggie replied. “ If you folks down here know 
that Uncle left his money and place to your teacher, that 
ought ’a be enough for Dad.” 

“ Of course the timber’s worth a lot,” sparred Billy. 

“ But Dad don’t need it,” Jim declared. “He’s rich 
now.” 

“ He is? ” Billy respected the new boy for the nonchal- 
ance of his tones. Riches hadn’t made him stuck up, at 
any rate. 

“ Yep,” went on Scroggie, “ Dad owns some big oil 
wells in the States. He ain’t got any business down here 
anyways, but he’s eo pig-headed you can’t tell him any- 
thin’; I’ll say that much, even if he is my father. It’s bad 
enough for him to lug me away from town, but he made 
Lou come along, too. ’ ’ 

“ Lou? ” 

“ She’s my sister,” Jim explained proudly. “ She’s a 
year younger ’n me. Dad says she looks just like Mother 
looked. I guess that’s the reason she kin do most anythin 5 
she likes with him. But she couldn’t get him to let her 


EDUCATING THE NEW BOY 


121 


stay in Cleveland. He brought her along and Aunt too. 
Aunt keeps house for us. ’ ’ 

“ I guess your Dad don’t think much of us folks down 
here, does h6? ” Billy asked. 

Scroggie ohuekled. “ Dad ain’t got any use for any- 
body, much,” he answered. “ I never heard him say any- 
thin’ about any of the people of the Settlement but once, 
and that was just t’other night. He come home lookin’ as 
if somebody had pushed his head into a crate of eggs. I 
was too scared to ask him how it happened and Lou 
wouldn’t. Dad said the people ’round here are a bad 
lot and it wouldn ’t surprise him if they tried to kill him. ’ ’ 

Billy threw back his head and laughed, the first hearty 
laugh he had known for days. Scroggie, in spite of the 
pain his swollen lips caused him, laughed too. 

“ Say,” he remarked, hesitatingly, “ you got a great 
laugh, Billy.” 

“ Oh I don’t know,” Billy replied. “ What makes you 
think so, Jim?” Scroggie sat down beside him on the log. 
“ I had a chum in the city who laughed just like you do. 
Gosh, nobody ’ll know how much I miss him. ’ ’ 

“ Dead? ” 

Scroggie nodded. “ Drowned through an air-hole in the 
lake. Say, Billy, do you skate? ” 

“ Some.” 

“ Swim? ” 

“ A little.” 

“ Shoot? ” 

Billy scratched his head reflectively. “ Not much, any 
more,” he said. “ Course I like duek-shootin’, an’ do quite 
a lot of it in the fall.” 

“ How ’bout quail? ” 

“ I don’t shoot quail any more,” Billy answered. “ I’ve 


122 


A SON OF COURAGE 


got to know ’em too well, I guess. You see,” in answer to 
the other boy’s look of surprise, 44 when a feller gets to 
know what chummy, friendly little beggars they are, he 
don’t feel like shootin’ ’em.” 

44 But they’re wild, ain’t they and they’re game birds? ” 

44 They’re wild if you make ’em wild, but if they get to 
know that you like ’em an’ won’t hurt ’em, they get real 
tame. I’ve got one flock I call my own. I fed ’em last 
winter when the snow was so deep they couldn ’t pick up a 
livin’. They used to come right into our barn-yard for the 
tailin’s I throwed out to ’em.” 

44 What’s tailin’s? ” 

44 It’s the chaff and small wheat the fannin’ mill blows 
out from the good grain. Pa lets me have it fer my wild 
birds. I’ve got some partridge up on the hickory knoll, 
too. They’re shyer than the quail, but I’ve got ’em so tame 
I kin call ’em and make ’em come to me. ’ ’ 

44 You kin? ” Jim exclaimed. 44 Well, I’ll be razzle-daz- 
zled! ” 

4 4 So, I don’t shoot partridge neither,” said Billy. 44 I 
don’t blame anybody else fer shootin’ ’em, remember, but 
somehow, I’d rather leave ’em alive.” 

44 1 see,” said Scroggie. Of course he didn’t, but he 
want?d to make Billy feel that he did. 

44 Well you do more than most people, then,” said Billy. 
44 The folks ’round here think I’m crazy, I guess, an’ Joe 
Scraff — he’s got an English setter dog an’ shoots a lot; he 
told me that if he happened onto my quail an’ partridge 
he’d bag as many of ’em as he could. I told him that if he 
shot my birds, he’d better watch out fer his white Leghorn 
chickens but he laughed at me.” 

44 And did he shoot your quail? ” asked Scroggie. 

Billy nodded. 44 Once. Flushed ’em at the top of the 


EDUCATING THE NEW BOY 


123 


knoll and winged one bird. The rest of the covey flew into 
our barn-yard an’ ’course he couldn’t f oiler ’em in there.” 

‘ ‘ Gollies ! Did you see him ? ’ ’ 

“ No, me an’ Pa an’ Anse was down at the back end of 
the place. Ma saw him, though, an’ she told me all about 
it. Say, maybe I wasn’t mad, but I got even, all right.” 

“ Did you? How? ” 

Billy looked searchingly at his new friend. “ I never 
told a soul how I did it, ’cept my chum, Maurice Keeler,” 
he said. “ But I’ll tell you. That same evenin’ I was 
prowlin’ through the slashin’ lookin’ fer white grubs fer 
bass-bait. I fount a big rotten stump, so I pushed it over, 
an ’ right down under the roots I found an old weasel an ’ six 
half-grown kittens. Afore she could get over her surprise, I 
had her an’ her family in the tin pail I had with me, an’ the 
cover on. By rights I should a’ killed the whole caboodle 
of ’em, I s’pose, ’cause they’re mighty hard on the birds; 
but I had work fer ’em to do. 

“ That night I took them weasels over to Scraff’s an’ 
turned ’em loose under his barn. I knowed mighty well 
ma weasel would stay where it was dark an’ safe and the 
chicken smell was so strong. Couple of days after that 
Scraff come over to our place to borrow some rat traps. 
His face was so long he was fair steppin’ on his lower lip. 
He said weasels had been slaughterin’ his Leghorns, right 
an ’ left ; six first night an ’ nine the next. 

“ ‘ I hope they won’t get among my quail,’ I says, an’ 
Scraff he turned round an’ looked at me mighty hard, but 
he didn’t say nuthin’. He went away, grumblin’, an’ car- 
ryin’ six of Dad’s traps. Course I knowed he couldn’t 
catch a weasel in a trap in twenty years an’ he didn’t catch 
any either. Ma weasel killed some more of his Leghorns, 
an’ then Scraff he comes to me. ‘ Billy,’ he says, 4 is there 


124 


A SON OF COURAGE 


any way to get rid of weasels? ’ 4 Sure there’s a way,’ I 
says, 4 but not everybody knows it. ’ 

44 4 I’ll give you five dollars if you’ll catch them weasels 
that are killin’ my chickens,’ he says. 

44 4 If you’ll promise me you’ll stay away from my quail 
an’ partridge I’ll catch ’em fer nuthin,’ I told him. 4 Only,’ 
I says, 4 remember, I do what I please with ’em, after I get 
’em.’ He looked at me as though he’d like to ehoke me, 
but he said all right, he ’d leave my birds alone. 

44 That night Maurice Keeler an’ me went over to Gam- 
ble’s an’ borrowed his old ferret. He’s a big ferret an’ 
he’ll tackle anythin’, even a skunk. With some keg-hoops 
an’ a eanvas sack we had made what we needed to catch 
the weasels in. Then we put a muzzle on the ferret, so he 
couldn’t fang-cut the weasels, an’ we went over to Scraff’s. 
As soon as Joe Scraff saw the ferret he began to see light 
an’ turned into the house to get his shotgun. I told him 
to remember his promise to let me get the weasels alive, so 
he set on the fence an’ watched while we got busy. 

44 First off we plugged every hole under that barn but 
two, an’ at each of these two we set a hoop-net. Then we 
turned ol’ Lucifer, the ferret, loose under the bam. Holy 
Smoke! afore we knowed it there was high jinks goin’ on 
under there. Maurice had hold of one hoop an’ me the 
other. It took ma weasel an’ her boys an’ girls ’bout half 
a minute to make up their minds that ol’ Lueifer wasn’t 
payin’ ’em a friendly visit. When the big scramble was 
over, I had a bagful of weasels an’ so did Maurice. We let 
Lucifer prowl round a little longer to make sure we had 
all of ’em, then I called him out. I made Scraff give us 
one of his hens to feed the ferret on. Then Maurice an’ me 
started off. 

4 4 4 You think you got all of ’em, Bill? ’ Scralf •dfled. 


EDUCATING THE NEW BOY 


125 


“ 4 AH this time/ I says, an’ to save my life I couldn’t 
help laughin’ at the look on his face. He knowed right 
then that I had put up a job on him but he couldn’t figure 
out how.” 

“ Oh Hully Gee! ” yelled Jim Scroggie, “ Wasn’t that 
corkin’ — Oh Mommer! An’ what did you an’ Maurice 
do with the weasels? ” 

Billy grinned sheepishly. “ We should ’a killed ’em, I 
s’pose,” he said, “ but we took ’em down to the marsh an’ 
turned ’em loose there. Maurice said that anythin’ that 
had done the good work them weasels had, deserved life, an’ 
I thought so too.” 

The twilight shadows were beginning to steal across the 
glade; the golden-rod of the uplands massed into indistin- 
guishable clumps. The silence of eventide fell soft and 
sweet and songless — that breathless space between the 
forest day and darkness. 

Billy stood up. “ You’ll like it here,” he said to the 
other boy who was watching him, a strange wonder in his 
eyes. “ After you know it better,” he added. 

“ I’m afraid I don’t fit very well yet,” Screggie an- 
swered. “ Maybe you’ll let me trail along with you some- 
times, Bill, and learn things? ” 

“ We’ll see,” said Billy and without another word turned 
to the dim pathway among the trees. 


CHAPTER XII 


OLD HARRY MAKES A FIND 

Through the dusky twilight, soft with woocuana aews 
and sweet with odor of ferns and wild flowers, Billy walked 
slowly. For the first time in long days his heart felt at 
peace. The canker of loneliness that had gnawed at his 
spirit was there no longer. It was a pretty good old world 
after all. 

A whip-poor-will lilted its low call from a hazel copse 
and Billy answered it. A feeling that he wanted to visit 
his wild things in the upland shanty and explain to them 
his seeming neglect of them during his time of stress' took 
possession of him. So, although he knew supper would be 
ready and waiting at home, he branched off where the 
path forked and hurried forward toward the oak ridge. 

It was almost dark when he reached the little log sugar- 
shanty which housed his pets. He had hidden a lantern 
in a hollow log against such night visits as this and he 
paused to draw it out and light it before proceeding to 
the menagerie. As he rounded the shanty, whistling softly, 
and anticipating how glad Spotba, Moper, the owl, and all 
the other wild inmates would be to see him, he paused 
suddenly, and the whistle died on his lips. Somebody had 
been snooping about his menagerie! The prop had been 
taken from the door. 

His mind traveled at once to Anse. So that meddler 
had been here and tried to let his pets free, had he? 
Apparently the chump didn’t know they each had a separate 
cage, or if he did he hadn’t the nerve to open it. Well, 

126 


OLD HARRY MAKES A FIND 


127 


it meant that Anse had that much more to settle for with 
him, that was all ! 

Billy put his hand on the latch of the door, then stood, 
frozen into inaction. From the interior of the shanty had 
come a groan — a human groan ! Billy almost dropped the 
lantern. A cold shiver ran down his spine. His mind 
flashed to Old Scroggie’s ghost. The hand that groped into 
his pocket in search of the rabbit-foot charm trembled so 
it could scarcely clasp that cherished object. 

What would Trigger Finger do if placed in his position ? 
Billy asked himself. There was only one answer to that. 
He took a long breath and, picking up a heavy club, swung 
the door open. The feeble rays of the lantern probed the 
gloom and something animate, between the cages, stirred 
and sat up. 

“ Harry! ” gasped Billy, “ Harry O’Dule! ” 

“ Ha,” cried a quavering voice, “ and is ut the Prince 
av Darkness, himself, as spakes t’ me? Thin it’s no fit av 
the delirium tremens I’ve had at all, at all, but dead I am 
and in purgatory! Oh weary me, oh weary me! Such 
shnakes and evil eyed burruds have I never seen before. 
Och! could I be given wan taste av God's blissid air and 
sunshine ag’in, and never more would whiskey pass me 
lips.” 

Spotba, the big mottled marsh snake, sensing Billy’s 
presence, uncoiled himself and raised his head along the 
screen of his cage; the brown owl hooted a low welcome 
that died in a hiss as Harry groaned .again. 

4 ‘ Merciful hivin ! look at the eyes av that awful burrud,” 
he wailed. “ And that big shnake hissin’ his poison in me 
very face. Take me along, Divil, take me along,” he 
screamed. ‘ ‘ It’s no more av this I kin stand at all, at all.” 

Billy hung the lantern on the door and bent above the 


12 $ 


A SON OF COURAGE 


grovel&ag Harry. "Hey you,” he said, giving the old 
man's shouMer a shake, " get up an' come out 'a here; 
I 'm not the devil, I *m. Billy. ' 9 

" Billy,” Harry held his breath and blinked his red- 
rimmed eyes in unbelief. " Billy, ye say? ” He got up 
with Billy's help and stood swaying unsteadily. 

" You're drunk again ! ” said the boy, in deep disgust 

Harry wiped his lips on his sleeve and stood gazing fear- 
fully about him. " Do you see the shnakes and the evil- 
eyed burrods, Billy Bye? ” he shuddered. " It's see ’em 
ye shurely can and hear their divil hisses.” His fingers 
gripped the boy 's arm. 

Billy shook him off. " Look here, Harry,” he said, 
" You're seein' things. There ain't no snakes in here — 
no birds neither. You come along outside with me.” He 
grasped the Irishman by the arm and started toward the 
door. 

" Me jug,” whispered Harry. " Where is that divil 's 
halter av a jug, Billy? ” 

" There’s your jug on its side,” Billy touched the jug 
with his foot. "You must've drunk it empty, Harry.” 

" Faith, an' I did not. But ut's all the same, impty or 
full. Niver agin will ut lead me into delirium tremens, I 
promise ye that, although it's meself that knows where 
there's a plinty of whisky, so I do.” 

Billy led him outside and turned the light of the lantern 
full on his face. " Harry,” he said, sternly, " where 
are you gettin' all this whisky? ” 

The eld man started. " That's me own business,” he 
answered shortly. 

" Oh.” Billy took hold of his arm, " Then them snakes 
an’ BOMi-eatin’ birds you've been seein' are yonr own busi- 
ness, too; an' since you’ve been ninny enough to stray into 


OLD HARRY MAKES A FIND 


129 


this shanty, I’m goin’ to put you back in it an’ see that 
you stay in it. ’ ’ 

“ And fer God’s sake, why? ” gasped the frightened 
O’DuIo. 

“ That’s my business,” said Billy. 

Harry glanced behind him with a shudder. 44 God love 
you fer a good lad, Billy,” he cried ; 44 but this is no way to 
trate an ould frind, is ut now? ” 

‘ 4 Then you best tell me where you ’re gettin ’ the whisky, ’ ’ 
said Billy. 

“ But that’s shure the ould man’s secret, Billy,” pleaded 
Harry. 44 It’s not a foine chap as ye are would be wheedlin’ 
it out av me, now ? ’ ’ 

Billy frowned. 44 I know that Spencer won’t give you 
any more whisky, ’ ’ he said, 44 an ’ I know the deacon won ’t 
give you any more cider. I know that you’re gettin’ liquor 
some place — an’ without payin’ fer it. Now you kin tell 
me where, er you kin stay in that shanty an’ see snakes an’ 
things all night.” 

Harry wavered. 44 And if I be tellin’ ye,” he com- 
promised, 44 ye’ll be givin’ a promise not to pass it along, 
thin ? Wull ye now ? ’ ’ 

44 Yes I promise not to tell anybody but Maurice? ” 

44 Then I’ll be tellin’ ye where I do be gettin’ the whisky, 
Billy; where else but m the ha y nted house” 

44 What? ” Billy could scarcely believe his ears. 

44 May I niver glimpse the blissid blue av Ireland’s skies 
ag’in, if I spake a lie,” said Harry, earnestly. 44 In the 
ha’nted house I found ut, Billy. Wait now, and I tell ye 
how ut so happened. Ye’ll be rememberin’ that night we 
tried to wait fer ould Scroggie’s ghost an’ the terrible 
storm come on and split us asunder wid a flash av blue 
lightnin’? I was crossin’ meself in thankfulness that ut 


130 


A SON OF COURAGE 


found the big elm instead av me, I was, whin I dropped me 
fairy charm, d’ye moind? Stay and seek fer ut I would 
not, wid all the powers av darkness conspirin' wid ould 
Scroggie ag’in me. Ut’s fly I did on the wings av terror 
to me own cabin, an’ covered up me head wid the bed- 
quilt, I did.” 

“ Well, go on. What’s all this got to do with whisky? ” 

“ Jest you wait a bit and you’ll find that out. Nixt day 
I go down there ag’in to look fer me charm, but find ut 
I did not. Then wid me little jug in me hand and me 
whistle in me bosom, did I strike across woods to the 
Twin Oaks store, there to learn av the robbery. A little 
bit av drink did I get from Spencer, an’ takin’ ut home 
was I when an accident I had, an’ spilled ut. Well, ut 
was afther several days av hard toil, wid not so much as 
a drop left in me little jug, that one mornin’ as I was 
cuttin’ through the lower valley fer Thompson’s tater- 
patch, that come to me ut did I’d search a bit fer me lost 
charm ag’in. 

“ Ut was while pokin’ about I was among the twigs on 
the ground, whisperin’ a bit av witch-talk that belongs to 
me charm, that I discovered human foot-prints in the earth 
av the hollow. This I would not have thought strange 
a ’tall a ’tall, but the foot prints led right into the ha’nted 
grove. ‘ Begobs,’ thinks I, ‘ no ghost iver wore boots the 
size av them now! ’ On me hands and knees I crawled 
forrard an’ right in the edge av the grove I glimpsed 
somethin’, I did, beneath the ferns, somethin’ that isrparkled 
in the mornin ’ light like a bit av star-dust on the edge av 
a cloud. Thinkin’ only av me blessid charm, I erawled 
further in, and phwat do you suppose I picked up, Billy 
Bye? A bottle ut was, an’ almost full av prime liquor. 

“ Sit I there, wid God’s sunlight caressin’ me bare head 


OLD HARRY MAKES A FIND 


131 


and his burruds trillin’ their joy at me good luck — and 
dhrink I did. It’s a mercy ut was but a small bottle, else 
I might have taken it back to me cabin to be finished at 
leisure. Instead, whin ut was all dhrunk up, I found 
widin me the courage to proceed further into the ha’nted 
grove. So I goes, an’ afore I knew ut, right up to the 
ha’nted house I was, and inside ut.” 

Harry paused and sat looking away, a reminiscent smile 
on his faee. 

“ What did you find there? ” Billy’s tone of impatience 
brought the old man out of his musing. 

“ Whisky,” he answered solemnly, “ two great jugs full 
av ut, Billy Bye.” 

“ And what else? ” 

“ Nothin’ else,” returned Harry. “ Nuthin’ else that 
mattered, Bye. A square box there was that I had no time 
to open a ’tall; but whisky! Oh, Billy Bye — there ut was 
afore me, enough av ut to coax all the blood-suckin’ bats 
and snakes in hades up to mock the consumer av ut. ’ ’ 

Billy reached down and gripped the old man’s arm. 
“ You found that stuff and didn’t so much as tell 
Spencer? ” he cried indignantly. 

“ And fer why should I tell Spencer, thin? ” Harry 
asked, his blood-shot eyes wide in wonder. “ Nobuddy 
told me where to find ut, did they ? ’ ’ 

“ But Harry, don’t you see, that stuff belongs to Caleb 
Spencer. The thieves must have hid it there, in the ha’nted 
house.” 

“ Course they did,” Harry agreed. “ Ut’s no fool you 
take me fer, shurely? ” 

“ Then why didn’t you tell Spencer? Don’t you know 
them thieves will find out you’ve been there an’ they’ll hide 
that stuff in a new place, Harry? ” 


132 


A SON OF COURAGE 


The old man laughed softly. “ Wull they now? Well 
I guess they won’t naither. It’s hide ut in a new place I 
did, meself. They 11 have a lot av trouble afindin’ ut, 
too. ’ ’ 

“ Then,” cried Billy, hotly, “ you’re as big a thief as 
they are.” 

* ‘ Hould on now ! ’ ’ Harry swayed up from the log, the 
prin gone from his face. “ Ut’s little did I think that Billy 
Wilson would be misunderstandin’ me,” he said, reproach- 
fully. “ Not wan article that the box contained has been 
teched by me. A small bit av the whisky have I took, 
because it was no more than sufficient reward f er me findin ’ 
the stuffi, but the box is safe and safe ut wull be returned 
to Spencer whin the proper time comes.” 

“ An’ when’ll that be, Hairy? ” 

“ Listen thin.” Harry touched Billy’s arm. “ Ivery 
day since I made me discovery an’ hid box and jugs in a 
new spot have I visited that sour-faced ould Spencer, and 
I’ve said: * Supposin’ one should discover your stolen 
goods, Caleb Spencer, would ye be willin’ t’ let what little 
whisky there was left go to the finder? ’ 

V An’ phwat has he said? ‘ Some av ut,’ said he, when 
first I broached the question. And the nixt time I axed 
him he said, 1 Half av ut. ’ Nixt time — only yesterday ut 
was — he said, ‘ Harry, I’d be givin’ two-thirds av ut to 
the finder.’ ” 

Harry laughed and again touched Billy’s arm. “ To- 
night ut’s go back to him I wull an’ the question put to 
him once more, an’ this night, plase God, he wull likely 
say, ‘ All av ut, Harry, all av ut.’ ” 

Billy, who was thinking hard, looked up at this. * ‘ But, ’ ’ 
he said sternly, ‘ ‘ you said, only a few minutes ago, that 
you were done forever with whisky.” 


OLD HARRY MAKES A FIND 


133 


“ And begobs I meant ut too,” cried Harry. 44 When 
Caleb Spencer says, 4 All av nt ’ to me, ut’s laugh at him 
I wull, and tell him it’s meself wants none av ut.” 

Billy’s frown vanished. 44 Fine, Harry, fine,” he com- 
mended, 44 an’ I’ll go down to the store with you. Come 
up to the house, now, and I’ll manage to sneak you out 
some supper. ’ ’ 

44 Plase God,” murmured Harry, 44 but ut’s meself ’ll 
be glad to lave this awful spot; lead on, Billy.” 

44 Foller me then, an’ remember to keep quiet,” cau- 
tioned Billy. 

44 But fer why should I keep quiet? Haven’t I thrown 
off the curse av rum ? Why should I not shout the cry av 
victory, Billy? 

44 Shout nuthin’; you keep still.” 

44 But a small bit av a chune, Billy. A bit av a lilt on 
me whistle, now. ’ ’ 

4 4 No. After I ’ve got hold of our supper you kin lilt 
all you care to. Look here, Harry, you know jest how 
much use Ma has fer you; if she finds out you’re on our 
place, she’ll sick the dog on you. Now you do as I say.” 

He took the path through the trees, Harry stumbling 
close behind, grumbling and protesting against the unkind 
fate that would not allow of his celebrating victory in a 
manner befitting a true son of Ireland. When, at length, 
they reached the edge of the wood, Billy stopped and 
pointed to a stump. 

44 Set down there an’ keep still as a mouse till I get 
back,” he admonished. 44 I won’t be long.” 

44 But, Billy Bye, supposin’ the cold-eyed burruds an’ 
the hissin’ serpents should be returnin’ to threaten me 
wance ag’in? ” 

Billy’s hand went down into his trouser’s pocket. 


134 


A SON OF COURAGE 


■“ Look,” he comforted, 44 I’ve got my rabbit^foot charm, 
an" I’m goin’ to draw a magic circle ’round the stump 
you’re settin’ on. No snakes, owl, ner even old Scroggie’s 
ghost kin get inside that circle.” 

Harry held his breath and watched him, fascinated, as 
he proceeded to trace the ring. 

4 4 Fer the love av hivin, be sure ye make both inds av the 
circle jine,” he shivered. 44 Ut’s a small crack a ghost kin 
squeeze through, I’m tellin’ ye.” 

44 There you are, Harry.” Billy, having completed the 
magic circle, stood up and put the charm back in his 
pocket. 44 Not a chink in it,” he assured the old man. 

44 Faith,” sighed Harry, 44 ut’s meself is willin’ to be 
riskin’ a little in return fer a bite to eat, fer it’s fastin’ 
long I’ve been an’ as impty as a church, I am.” 

44 We’ll fix that,” Billy promised, as he slipped away 
through the darkness toward the light which glimmered 
through the trees. 


CHAPTER XIII 


ERIE OP THE LIGHT-HOUSE 

Through the summer night, Hinter, astride a rangy roan, 
rode the ten mile trail that lay between the foot of Rond 
Eau and the light-house. On his left the giant pines stood 
with sharp points clearly defined against the starlight like 
the bayonet-fixed guns of a sleeping army; to his right 
swept dwarf cedars and stunted oaks and beyond them 
the bay marshes, with weaving fire-flies shimmering like 
star-dust close above them. 

It was a lonely trail but Hinter had ridden it often. 
He knew that in the shadows lurked wild things which 
resented his intrusion of their retreat; that later, when 
the night grew old, timber-wolves would voice their pro- 
test, and fierce-eyed lynx, tufted ears flat and fangs bared 
in hatred, would look down upon him from overhanging 
branch of tree. But behind him stalked protection in the 
form of two great dogs against which no wolf or cat had 
ever waged successful warfare. Besides, there was the 
heavy “ 40-40 ” revolver in his belt. 

“ Two Great Danes and a 4 bull-dog ’ should be protec- 
tion enough for any man, ’ ’ he would laugh to Landon, the 
light-house keeper, when the latter shook his head doubt- 
fully over Hinter ’s foolhardiness in riding this lone night 
traiL And Landon, whose asthma made talking difficult 
for him, would say no more, realizing that it was useless. 

The light-house keeper, who lived with his daughter in 
a comfortable house on the extreme end of the Point, had 
always been glad to welcome Hinter to his isolated loneli- 

135 


136 


A SON OF COURAGE 


ness. With an invalid’s self-centeredness, he believed that 
it was to relieve the monotony of his existence that this 
man paid him periodical visits. He did not dream that 
his daughter, Erie, named after the lake, whose blue lay 
deep in her eyes and whose moods w T ere of herself a part, 
was the real attraction which drew Hinter to their home. 
Indeed it would have taken a much more astute observer 
than the man who had been keeper of the light for more 
than thirty years to have observed this. Never by look, 
word or sign had Hinter shown that in this slender, golden- 
haired girl, whose laughter was the sweetest note in the 
world — this girl who could trim a sail in biting gale and 
swim the wide, deep channel when tempest angered it to 
clutching under-currents — was more to him than just a 
glad, natural product of her world. Always his manner 
towards her had been one of kindly respect. In time she 
grew ashamed of the distrust she had on first acquaintance 
intuitively felt for him. He was good to her father and 
considerate of her. He talked interestingly of the big out- 
side world and described the cities he had visited. Her 
father liked him and always looked forward to his visits, 
and with a sick man’s petulance grumbled if Hinter failed 
to come on his regular nights. 

“ He’s a fine man, Erie,” he would say to his daughter, 
“ and well off, too. I’d like to see you married to a man 
like Hinter before I go. Ever since your Ma died, I’ve 
been worried about leavin’ you behind.” 

“ But I am going to marry Frank, Daddy,” the girl 
would say softly. 

“Hey? Oh, all right, all right. Stanhope’s a fine 
youngster, but poor, poor.” 

He would lapse into silence, sucking his pipe, and watch- 
ing Erie putting away the supper-dishes. 


ERIE OF THE LIGHT-HOUSE 


137 


“ HeTl never find the Scroggie will,” he would speak 
again. “ HeTl always be poor.” 

“ But, Daddy,” the girl would laugh, “ we love each 
other. We are happy and real happiness is worth more 
than money, isn’t it, dear? ” 

“ Aye,” he would answer. “ Your mother and I were 
happy in that way. But she was taken away and all I 
had in her place was heart loneliness — but for you. * ’ Then 
she would ldss him softly and, stealing about her house- 
hold tasks, sing him to fitful sleep as she moved quietly 
about the room. 

Tonight as Hinter rode through the pine-scented gloom 
the light-house keeper sat in his big chair beside the window 
that looked upon the lake. Spent from a trying fit of 
coughing, his nerves crying for the rest which was denied 
him, the sick man had gazed across to where the shuttle 
of sunset was weaving its fabric of changing colors upon 
sky and water. But he had not seen those glad lights; 
had not heard the cries of the haven-seeking gulls or the 
soft plaintive notes of the night birds from the Point 
forest. The lights had flashed and departed unseen, the 
wild calls had been voiced and sunk to silence unheard, 
because a tenderer light, which had belonged to this, his 
own hour, had vanished; a sweeter song than even night 
birds could voice had been stilled — the light in his Erie’s 
eyes and the low notes from her glad heart. 

He knew why. She had told him. God, Destiny, Fate, 
had come between her and the man she loved. The man 
had lost more than life in playing the part of a man. He 
was blind! Behind him were only memories that could 
not be buried. Before him only darkness, bleakness, 
despair. And he had done an heroic thing in giving her 
up. Helpless, powerless to support her, what else was 


138 


A SON OF COURAGE 


there for him to do? So, in his love for her, he had dug a 
grave and in it buried Hope and all that God in His wise 
ordinance had allowed him to live and feel. And they had 
kissed and parted, kneeling beside this grave, cold lips to 
cold lips, broken heart to broken heart. It was the kiss on 
the cross which each must carry. 

So much had she told him, and the light had gone from 
her eyes, the song from her lips. 

The sick man sank lower in his chair, his face working, 
his heart crying the same pleading cry as cried the heart 
of Rachel of old for her children — a cry understood only 
by the heart in which it was born — and God. 

And so Hinter found him there before the window in 
the gloom, his thin hands clutching the arms of his ehair, 
his white face sunk on his breast. “ Landon, old friend, 
asleep? ” he asked softly. No answer. Hinter struck a 
match and lit the lamp on the table. Then he touched the 
sleeper’s arm; still he did not stir. 

Alarmed, Hinter drew the big chair about so that the 
light would fall on the sick man’s face. Slowly Landon 
opened his eyes. He struggled erect and attempted to 
speak, but a fit of coughing assailed him and robbed him of 
breath. 

From his pocket Hinter drew a flat bottle and poured a 
portion of its contents into a glass. Gently raising the 
emaciated form to a more comfortable position, he held the 
glass to the blue lips. Under the stimulant of the brandy 
Landon rallied. 

“ Thanks,” he whispered. Then, hospitality his first 
thought, he motioned towards a chair. Hinter sat down. 

“ Worse than usual tonight, isn’t it? ” he asked in kindly 
tones. 

“ Yes, asthma’s that way — eases off — then eomos back 


ERIE OF THE LIGHT-HOUSE 139 

— hit* you sudden.” He glanced at the bottle. Hinter, 
understanding, poured him out another portion. 

‘ 4 It seems to be the only thing that helps, ’ ’ gasped Lan- 
don as he swallowed the draught. 

Hinter nodded. “ Not a bad medicine if rightly used,” 
he said. He filled his pipe, lit it, and passed the tobacco- 
pouch to Landon. He was watching the door leading to 
the inner room. 

“ Erie out in her boat? ” he asked, casually. 44 I don’t 
hear her voice, or her whistle.” 

44 She’s out on the bay,” answered the father and lapsed 
again into brooding silence. 

Hinter waited. At length Landon roused from his nurs- 
ings. “My heart’s heavy for her,” he said, “and heavy 
for the young man who loves her. You’ve heard, of course. 
News of the like spreads quickly.” 

“ Yes, I’ve heard.” Hinter rose abruptly and strode to 
the window overlooking the bay. A full moon was lifting 
above the pines. In its silvery track a tiny sail was beat- 
ing harborward. 

After a time he turned and walked back slowly to where 
the sick man sat. 44 Mr. Landon,” he said, gravely, “ I 
love your daughter. With your permission I would make 
her my wife. Wait,” as the older man attempted to speak. 
4 4 Hoar what I have to say. I have endeavored to be honor- 
able. Never by word or look have I given her to under- 
stand what my feelings are toward her. For Stanhope, the 
man who was brave and strong enough to give her up, I 
have always had the deepest respect ; and now, knowing the 
price he has paid, I honor him. He was far more worthy 
of your daughter than I am. But now, as all is over 
between them, I would do my best to make her happy. ’ ’ 

44 That I know well,” spoke the father eagerly. 44 Ever 


140 


A SON OF COURAGE 


since my clutch on life has been weakenin ’ I ’ve worried at 
the thought that perhaps I may leave her unprovided for. 
You have lifted the load, my friend. I will speak to Erie 
and place your proposal of marriage before her. She’s a 
good girl; she’ll be guided by her father in the matter.” 

Hinter gravely thanked him. “ I would advise that you 
say nothing for a time,” he said. “ She is high-spirited, 
loyal to the core. She is suffering. Time will assist us ; we 
will wait. I shall visit you oftener than heretofore, but 
until I think the moment expedient say nothing to her. ’ ’ 

A light step sounded on the gravel ; the door opened and 
Erie entered. She was dressed in w T hite. The damp bay- 
breeze had kissed the golden hair to shimmering life but 
there were shadows beneath the violet eyes, a dreary pathos 
about the unsmiling mouth. 

She placed a cold little hand in the eager one which Hin- 
ter extended to her and her fleeting glance left him to fasten 
on the sick man in the arm chair. 

“ Daddy,” she cried, running over to kneel beside him. 
“ It was selfish of me to leave you alone.” 

“ I’ve had our good friend Hinter for company, girlie,” 
said her father, stroking the damp curls. 

Erie flashed their visitor a look of gratitude. ” It is 
good of you to come to him,” she said. “ He always looks 
forward to your visits, and grows quite fretful if you are 
late.” She smiled and patted the father’s hand. ‘‘The 
east wind’s bad for the cough but tomorrow you’ll be as 
good as ever, won’t you, Daddy? ” 

Landon did not reply. He simply pressed the girl’s cold 
hand. Hinter caught the look of suffering in her eyes as 
she arose and passed into the outer room. When she re- 
turned she carried a heavy, wicker-bound can. 

“ My lamps need filling,” she explained. “ No, please 


ERIE OF THE LIGHT-HOUSE 


141 


don’t come,” as Hinter made to take the can from her, “ I 
would rather you stayed with him. ’ 9 

He bowed, and his eyes followed her from the room. 
“ What a wonderful creature she is,” he thought. 

‘ * Hinter, ’ 9 Landon ’s weak voice broke in on his thoughts, 
“ you haven’t given me the neighborhood news. Have they 
found out who robbed the store yet ? ’ ’ 

“ No,” answered Hinter, resuming his seat, “ I believe 
not. Some were disposed to think that the shoremen had 
a hand in the robbery but I don’t think so.” 

“ Why don’t you? The Sand-sharkers aren’t above doin’ 
it, are they? ” 

“ Well, I don’t say that they are. That job was not done 
by any amateurs, though. The men who broke into Spen- 
cer’s store were old hands at the game. I was at the store 
and had a look over it. I ’ve seen the work of professional 
burglars before. These fellows made a clean sweep and 
left not a single clew. Still, I made my own deductions. 
I can’t tell you more until I have proved my suspicions 
correct. Hush ! ” he warned, “ she’s coming. I must be hit- 
ting the trail for the Settlement. ’ ’ 

As Hinter picked up his hat Erie entered and the light 
words he was about to speak died on his lips at sight of 
the girl’s stricken face. “ You are tired,” he said, in deep 
concern. “ The work of tending the lights alone is too 
much for you. Why not let me send someone from the Set- 
tlement to help you, at least until your father is strong 
enough to take up his end of the work again? ” 

She shook her head. “ The work is not hard and I love 
it,” she answered. “ After the lights are lit I have nothing 
to do. Daddy’s asthma will not let him sleep, so he sits in 
his big chair all night and keeps his eye on the light while 
I sleep. Then when the sun sucks up the mists from bay 


142 


A SON OF COURAGE 


and lake he is able to get his sleep. So, you see,” amiling 
bravely, 44 we get along splendidly.” 

Hinter held out his hand. 44 Well, good night Miss Erie, ” 
he said. 44 I’ll be up again soon, with some books for you.” 

44 But you mustn’t go without having a cup of tea and 
a bite to eat,” she protested. 44 Please sit down and I’ll 
have it ready in a minute.” 

He shook his head. 4 4 Not tonight, thanks. You’re tired, 
and I ’ve a long ride before me. Next time I come w#Tl have 
tea, ’ ’ he promised as he turned to shake hands with Landon. 

44 Your guardians are with you I suppose? ” said Erie, 
as he turned to go. 

He laughed, 44 Sphinx and Dexter, you mean? Yes, 
they are out in the stable with my horse. By the way, they 
didn’t see you last time we were here, and they seemed to 
feel pretty badly about it. Would you mind stepping out- 
side and speaking a word to them ? ” he asked. 4 4 They are 
very fond of you, you know. ’ ’ 

She shivered. 44 And I’m very fond of them, only,” she 
added as she followed him to the door, 44 I never know 
whether they want to eat me up or caress me. ’ ’ 

44 You won’t forget to come back again soon, Hinter! ” 
called the sick man. 44 It does me a sight of good to see 
you and get the news from the Settlement.” 

44 I’ll return soon,” Hinter promised. 44 Don’t worry 
about anything. A speedy recovery — and good night.” 

A full moon was veiling lake and bay in sheen of silvery 
whiteness as Hinter and Erie went out into the August 
night. Eastward the long pine covered Point swept a dark 
line against the grey, shadowy rush-lands. Somewhere 
among the hidden ponds mallards and grey ducks were 
quacking contentedly as they fed. A swamp coon raised his 
almost human cry as he crept the sandy shores in search 


ERIE OP THE LIGHT-HOUSE 


143 


of the frogs whose tanging notes boomed from the boglands. 

Man and girl paused for a little time on the strip of white 
sand to drink in the beauty of the night and the sounds of 
its wild life. Then Hinter stepped to the stable and opened 
the door. “ Come boys,” he commanded and the two 
great dogs eame bounding out to leap upon him with whines 
of welcome, then on to where the girl stood, waiting, half 
eagerly, half frightened. 

“ Gently now,” Hinter cautioned, and they threw them- 
selves at her feet, massive heads on outstretched paws, 
deep-set eyes raised to her face. She bent and placed a 
hand on the head of each. 

“ Surely,” she said, “ they are not as ferocious as they 
are said to be? ” 

Hinter knit his brows. “ Pm afraid they are,” he an- 
swered. ‘ 1 But my friends are their friends, you see. There 
is only one other person besides yourself and myself who 
can do what you are doing now, though.” 

She looked up quickly. * ‘ And may I ask who that is ? ” 

“ Certainly; it’s young Billy Wilson. You know — the 
lad who is always roaming the woods. ’ ’ 

“ Yes,” she said softly. “ I know him perhaps better 
than most folks do. I am not surprised that he can han- 
dle these dogs, Mr. Hinter.” 

He glanced at her closely, struck by the odd note in her 
voice. “ He seems a manly little chap,” he said. “ I must 
get to know him better.” 

“ You may succeed,” she replied, “ but I’m afraid you 
would have to know Billy a long time to know him well.” 

She bent and gave the dogs a farewell pat; then moved 
like the spirit of the moonlight to the house. “ Good 
night,” she called softly from the doorway. 

“ Good night,” he echoed. 


144 


A SON OF COURAGE 


Five minutes later he was riding the two-mile strip of 
sand between the light-house and the pines, the Great 
Danes close behind. When he reached the timber he reined 
in to look back over his shoulder at the tall white tower with 
its ever-sweeping, glowing eye. Then, with a sigh, he rode 
forward and passed into the darkness of the trees. Half 
way down the trail he dismounted and, after hitching his 
horse to a tree and commanding his dogs to stand guard, 
plunged into the thickly-growing pine§ on the right of the 
path. 

Half an hour later he came out upon the lake shore. . 
Quickly he scraped together a pile of drift wood. He ap- 
plied a match to it and as fire leaped up stood frowning 
across the water. Then, as an answering light flashed from 
some distance out in the lake, he sighed in relief and seat- 
ing himself on the sand lit his pipe. After a time the 
sound of oars fell on his ears. A boat scraped on the beach. 
Two men stepped from it and approached the fire. 


CHAPTER XIV 


OLD HARRY TURNS A TRICK 

Maurice Keeler, wan, hollow-eyed, and miserable, was 
seated on a stool just outside the door in the early morning 
sunlight. Near him sat -his mother, peeling potatoes, her 
portly form obscured by a trailing wistaria vine. What 
Maurice had endured during his two weeks with the measles 
nobody knew but himself. His days had been lonely, filled 
with remorse that he had ever been born to give people 
trouble and care; his nights longer even than the days. 
Hideous nightmares had robbed him of slumber. Old 
Scroggie’s ghost had visited him almost nightly. The Twin 
Oaks robbers, ugly, hairy giants armed with red-hot 
pitch-forks, had bound him to a tree and applied fire to his 
feet. What use to struggle or cry aloud for help ? Even 
Billy, his dearest chum, had sat and laughed with all the 
mouths of his eight heads at his pain. Of course he had 
awakened to learn these were but dreams; but to a boy 
dreams are closely akin to reality. 

And now, after days of loneliness and nights of terror, 
Maurice was up again and outside where he could catch the 
wood-breeze and smell the sweet odor of plants and clearing 
fires. He wondered how many years he had been away 
from it all. How old was he now ? Why didn ’t his mother 
answer his questions ! He did not realize that his voice was 
weak; he had forgotten that his mother was deaf. All he 
knew was that nobody cared a hang for him any more, not 
even his own mother. His weak hands clutched at the 
bandage at his throat, as though to tear it off and hurl it 

145 


146 


A SON OF COURAGE 


from him. His head sank weakly back against the wall, 
and the tears came to his eyes. 

Suddenly those eyes opened wide. Was he dreaming 
again or did he hear the low croak of a crow ? He twisted 
his head. There at his feet sat Croaker. The crow’s beady 
eyes were fastened on him. Suspended from its neck was a 
cord and attached to the cord was a piece of yellow wrap- 
ping paper. 

Maurice’s white face slowly expanded in a grin. He 
glanced in the direction of his mother, then held out his 
hand to the crow with a lowspoken, “Come Croaker, ol’ 
feller.” 

But Croaker shook his head and backed away, emitting 
a string of unintelligible utterances. 

‘ ‘ Come Croaker, ’ ’ pleaded Maurice again. But the crow 
was obdurate. It is barely possible that he failed to recog- 
nize Maurice owing to the sick boy’s altered looks or per- 
haps he expected a glimpse of the reward which was always 
his for the performing of a service. With one backward 
look from his bright eyes, he spread his short wings and 
sailed across to Mrs. Keeler, settling on her shoulder with 
a harsh croak, whereat that greatly-startled lady sat down 
on the gravel, her lap full of dirty water and potatoes. 

What Mrs. Keeler might have done is not known, for 
just at this juncture a high-pitched voice came to her from 
the garden gate. “ Get hold of him, Missus Keeler an’ 
wring his black neck.” 

Mrs. Keeler, who heard the voice without catching Mrs. 
Wilson’s words, struggled up. Croaker promptly sailed 
over to Maurice for protection. The boy broke the string 
attached to the note from Billy and reaching behind him 
secured from a plate a scrap of the dinner he had left un- 
eaten. tl Here Croaker,” he whispered, “ grab it quick. 


OLD HARRY TURNS A TRICK 


147 


Now, back you go where things are safe, ’ ’ and he tossed the 
bird into the air. Croaker flew to a tree-top and proceeded 
to enjoy the reward of service well rendered. 

Maurioe glanced at the message, then his face fell. * ‘ Oh 
blame it all! ” he muttered, “ another of Bill’s sign let- 
ters; looks like a fence that’s been struck by lightnin’.” 

The several long perpendicular lines were possibly in- 
tended to represent the forest, but what was meant by the 
two vertical lines and the crosses directly beneath them 
Maurice did not know. Also there was a crudely drawn cir- 
cle and, inside it, a small square. Maybe this was supposed 
to represent a hollow stump with a squirrel-trap in it, 
thought the perplexed Maurice. With a sigh of disgust he 
turned the paper over. Then his eyes brightened. Writ- 
ten there in Billy’s cramped hand were these words and 
characters : 



fLor&~gfl-A 





148 


A SON OF COURAGE 


Maurice stared. So that was it! Billy and old Harry 
had found the goods stolen from the Twin Oaks store. 
There were doin’s — big doin’s, and Billy wanted him in 
on ’em. He leaned over to secure a view of his mother and 
Mrs. Wilson. Mrs. Keeler had removed her wet apron and 
was now seated on the bench beside her neighbor, listening 
to the latest gossip. 

“ That Jim Scroggie, the heir, has come back, an’ he’s 
rented the Stanley house,” Mrs. Wilson was saying. “ They 
say he’s goin’ to cut down the big woods an’ sell the tim- 
ber. I guess he intends stayin’ right on, ’cause he brought 
his housekeeper an’ his two children, a boy and a girl, with 
him.” 

‘ ‘ Is he tol’able well-to-do? ” Mrs. Keeler asked. 

‘ 1 Why yes. I understand he ’s rich as porcupine stew, ’ ’ 
said Mrs. Wilson. “ What he wants to come here fer, stir- 
rin’ up trouble, is beyond all knowin’. Him an’ that man 
Hinter — they’ve been trampin’ all over the country ex- 
aminin’ the land, cricks an’ everythin’. They met up with 
my man, Tom, on the road yesterday an’ they stopped him. 
Scroggie told him any time he wanted to bore fer water 
he’d put in a rig an’ Tom needn’t pay a cent if he didn’t 
get him a well.” 

“ Land o’ Liberty! but he was generous! ” cried Mrs. 
Keeler. 

1 * Tom said he ’d think it over an ’ let him know. I guess 
he was pretty short with Scroggie, knowin’ as he does that 
the woods an’ land rightly belong to young Stanhope.” 

“ That it does,” agreed Mrs. Keeler, indignantly. “ An’ 
him, poor young man, helpless through loss of his eyesight 
and all. You heard, of course, that Frank Stanhope and 
Erie Landon had broke their engagement ? ’ ’ 

“ Yes, everybody who knows ’em both an’ loves ’em both 


OLD HARRY TURNS A TRICK 


149 


has hoard that. But what else could they do? He’s not 
able to support a wife — the little farm is only enough 
fer himself, after that Burke an’ his wife are paid fer 
workin’ it and lookin’ after the house, an’ he’s too high- 
spirited to ask Erie to share his burden and poverty.” 

Mrs. Keeler gulped and reached for her apion but recol- 
lecting that she had hung it up to dry, rubbed her eyes 
on her sleeve. “ Cobin says that young man is jest about 
heartbroke, spite o’ the smile he wears,” she said. “ Tries 
so hard to be cheerful, too, in spite of all. Preacher Red- 
dick had supper with us last Sunday night an’ he said the 
teacher was the finest specimen of Christly example he’d 
ever seen. ’ ’ 

Mrs. Wilson cleared her throat. “ They do say that Mr. 
Hinter visits the light-house regular every week. Have 
you heard that, Missus Keeler? ” 

“ Yes, an’ I’m wonderin’ why? ” 

Mrs. Wilson rose and smoothed down her skirt. “ Well 
I wouldn’t go so far as to say I know why, but I have my 
suspicions,” she declared. “One thing I do know, it’s 
not ’cause he ’s so interested in a man sick with the asthma. ’ ’ 
Mrs. Keeler looked at her sagely. “ Erie would never 
marry any man like Hinter,” she asserted. 

“You can’t tell what a girl ’ll do fer her father,” said 
the other woman dubiously. “ But there now,” she broke 
off, “ here I am visitin’ away with you, jest as though 
there wasn’t a batch of bread riz and kneaded at home, 
ready fer the oven. When I looked fer my bread-pans 
blest a one could I find. I know that Billy has lugged ’em 
off somewheres to use as bath-tubs fer his birds and liz- 
ards; so, thinks I, I’ll jest run over an’ ask Mrs. Keeler 
fer the loan of hern. ’ ’ 

“ Why to be sure,” rejoined her neighbor, “ come right 


150 


A SON OF COURAGE 


along in an’ I’ll get ’em. I want you to see how nice my 
canned tomaters look. ’ ’ As they turned towards the house, 
Mrs. Wilson caught sight of Maurice, huddled in the big 
chair beneath the trailing vine. 

“ Well, fer the land sakes alive, Maurice! ” she cried. 
“ It is good to see you up ag’in. You’ve had a hard pull of 
it, poor lad. Dear heart! but it’s thinned you a lot, too! 
Think of any mortal boy changin' so in two short weeks.” 

Maurice squirmed. “It seemed a lot longer than two 
weeks,” he said faintly. 

* 1 There, there , 9 1 cried the big-hearted woman, ‘ ‘ of course 
it did.” 

Mrs. Keeler edged forward distrustfully. “ What's that 
he says he’s goin’ to do in two weeks? ” she asked, suspi- 
cion in her tones. “ Cause if you think, young man, you 
be goin’ to go in swimmin’ ag’in, inside two weeks — ” she 
pointedly addressed Maurice, ‘ ‘ you got another think 
comin ’. I ’m goin ’ to see that you don ’t suffer no re-lapse. ’ ’ 

“ I don’t want to go swimmin’ ” wailed Maurice, “ but 
I do want ’a walk a bit out through the woods, Ma.” 

“ No.” Mrs. Keeler shook her head with finality, “ I 
can’t trust you out o’ my sight. You gotta set right there 
where you be.” 

“ She don’t know how awful lonesome it is settin’ still 
so long,” sighed Maurice, casting an appealing eye on 
Billy’s mother. “ I wisht you’d ask her to let me go as far 
as your place with you, Missus Wilson, ’ ’ he pleaded, lower- 
ing his voice. “Billy kin trail ’long back with me an’ see 
I don’t cut up an}".” 

“ Maurice,” remonstrated Mrs. Wilson, smothering the 
sympathy in her heart in the clutch of duty, “ it’s wrong 
fer you to take advantage of your pore ma’s deefness this 
way. I wouldn’t send Willium back with you, anyways. 


OLD HARRY TURNS A TRICK 


151 


What devilment you wouldn’t think of he certainly would. 
No, I’ll ask your ma to let you come, but it’s Anson I’ll 
have bring you home an ’ not Willium. ’ ’ And with a frown 
and a shake of her head she followed her neighbor into 
the house. 

Maurice waited hopefully until his mother and Mrs. Wil- 
son came out again. Then he turned eagerly towards 
them. 

‘ 4 Your Ma says you kin come, ’ ’ said Mrs. Wilson, ‘ ‘ Pro- 
vidin’ I don’t let you near the cookie jar, and see that 
Anson brings you back safe.” 

“ Mind you,” his mother admonished as he followed Mrs. 
Wilson down the path, “ if you come home with wet feet 
into bed you go and stay ’till snow flies.” 

When they reached the meadow-path, with the outbuild- 
ings between them and the watchful eyes of his mother, 
Maurice removed the shawl from about his throat. “ I 
won’t be needin’ it any more, now,” he said in answer to 
his companion’s frown of protest. “ It makes me too warm, 
an’ the doctor he said whatever I did I mustn’t sweat.” 
Mrs. Wilson allowed the explanation to stand. 

They climbed the rail fence and started to cross the 
stubble-field. As they neared the long row of brown- 
fruited sumachs Mrs. Wilson paused anchstood in a listen- 
ing attitude. “Say, isn’t that Willium ’s varmint of a crow 
settin’ up there on that ash? ” she asked, pointing to the 
slender tree growing among the sumachs. 

Maurice shook his head. “ No ma’am, that ain’t him,” 
he said. “ It’s too big fer Croaker; it’s a wild crow.” 

“ Is it? ” The woman started on again, then halted 
abruptly. “ Well, it’s queer how much his voice is like 
Willium ’s crow. Can’t you hear him mutterin’ and 
croakin’? ” 


152 


A SON OF COURAGE 


“ Yep, I hear him, but all crows do that/’ Maurice 
hastened to explain. Then as a shrill note, half a cluck 
and half a whistle, sounded from the bushes, he added 
quickly. “That’s a hen partridge callin’. That erow’s 
tryin’ to scare her off her nest, most like, so’s he kin steal 
the eggs.” 

Again came the low whistle, and Maurice swayed, stag- 
gered and sank down on the stubble, with a faint moan. 
With a cry of alarm Mrs. Wilson bent above him. 
“Maurice! Maurice Keeler! ” she gasped. “Whatever is 
wrong? There now, I knowed you was up and out too 
soon. Come along. I’m goin’ to take you straight back 
home. ’ ’ 

“ Oh please don’t do that,” begged Maurice. “I’m jest 
a little weak, that ’s all. You leave me here an’ send Anse 
back to stay with me. I do so want to go over in the woods 
fer a little while, Missus Wilson.” 

The woman stood frowning and considering. “Well,” 
she said at length. “ I’ll go an’ have Anson come fer you 
but you see you don’t budge an inch till he comes.” 

“No ma’am, he’ll find me right here.” 

Maurice watched her until she climbed the road fence 
and entered the grove inside the Wilson gate. Then he 
started crawling towards the sumachs. As he reached them 
Billy poked his head from the bushes, a grin on his face. 

“ Have hard work gettin’ away from her, Maurice? ” he 
asked. 

“ Not very. Gee! Bill, it’s good to see you ag’in.” 

“ It’s good to see you too, Maurice. You got my code 
message, didn’t you? ” 

“ Yep. Have you found the stuff they stole from the 
store, Bill? ” 

“ You bet. Me an’ old Harry know right where it is. 


OLD HARRY TURNS A TRICK 


153 


We ain’t told another soul but you and teacher Stanhope 
’bout it yet, but we’re goin’ to soon. Come on an’ I’ll show 
you where it’s buried.” 

“ I can’t,” said Maurice miserably. “ Your Ma’s goin’ to 
send Anse out to keep tabs on me. If he wasn’t such a 
tattletale we might work it but you know him.” 

Billy pursed up his lips in thought. ‘ ‘ Say l ” he cried, 
“ I’ve got it. You go on back there where you played 
possum, an’ wait fer Anse. When he comes he’s goin’ to 
beg a favor of you, sure as shootin’. He played a dirty 
trick on me not long ago an’ he’s been keepin’ out of my 
way ever since. Lied to me so’s to get me to thrash a feller 
that licked him. I’ll tell you all about it later. Anse is 
goin’ to ask you to square it with me; he’s jest that kind. 
You promise to get him off this time if he goes away an’ 
leaves you by yourself. Then you come back here, see ? ” 

“ Yes, but if he goes an’ tells your Ma, what then? ” 

“ But he won’t. If he does she’ll tan him good fer 
goin’ off an’ leavin’ you by yourself. You tell him he’ll 
have to wait around here till you get back. He’ll do it, 
all right. There he comes through the grove now. Better 
crawl back to where Ma left you.” 

Maurice dropped on all fours and started wriggling 
through the rough stubble, sighing in relief as he reached 
the desired spot. 

Anson was grinning as he came up. “ Kind ’a weak on 
the pins, eh? ” he greeted, “ Ma told me I was to come 
across here an’ see you didn’t get into no mischief.” 

Maurice wanted to knock that grin off Anson’s sneering 
mouth, but he was in no condition to do it. Besides it was 
a moment for diplomacy. “ Everybody seems to think I 
want ’a fall in a well an’ get drowned, er somethin’,” he 
grumbled. ‘ ‘ Why do I need watchin ’, I ’d like to know ? ’ ’ 


154 


A SON OP COUKAGE 


Anson chuckled, “Well, you ain’t goin’ to get no chance 
to do any funny stunts this afternoon,” he promised. “I’m 
here to keep an eye on you. ’ ’ 

* ‘ Which one ? ’ ’ Maurice asked sarcastically. ‘ ‘ The good 
one er the blacked one? ” 

Anson’s face reddened. “You needn’t get funny! ” he 
cried, angrily. ‘ ‘ Any feller ’s liable to black an eye runnin ’ 
agin a tree, in the dark.” 

“ Or a fist in the daylight,” grinned Maurice. “ Well, 
never mind, Anse,” he said consolingly, “you’ve got one 
good eye left, but somethin’ tells me you won’t have it 
long.” 

1 ‘ What you mean ? ’ ’ asked Anson suspiciously. 

‘ ‘ Why, I ’ve got a hunch that somebody ’s layin ’ for you, 
that’s all,” answered Maurice. “ ’Course, I may be wrong. 
Am I? ” 

Anson squatted down beside Maurice. ‘ ‘ No, by gosh ! 
you’re not so far wrong,” he admitted, ruefully. “ Some- 
body is layin’ fer me, an’ layin’ fer me right. It’s Bill. 
Say, Maurice, won’t you try an’ get him to let me off this 
time. If you will I won’t ferget it in a hurry.” 

Maurice stood up. “ Where’s Bill now? ” he asked. 

“ I dunno. Down where he keeps his pets I s’pose. 
Why? ” 

“ Cause I’m goin’ down an’ find him. Ill beg you off 
this time, Anse, if you’ll do as I say.” 

‘ * What you mean, do as you say ? ’ ’ 

“You ’re to stay here till I get back, no matter bow long 
I’m away.” 

Anson considered.^ “An’ you promise to get Bill to let 
me off? ” 

“ Sure.” 

“All right, I’ll stay.” 


OLD HARRY TURNS A TRICK 


155 


“ Course, if you ain’t here when I get back the bar- 
gain’s off. Understand? ” 

Anson nodded. “ I’ll be here,” he promised. 

“ Bill won’t bother you none if you do what I say,” said 
Maurice as he made for the grove. Half an hour later he 
and Billy approached old Harry’s hut and knocked gently 
on the door. Harry ’s voice bade them enter. 

They found him seated on a stool, fondling the big grey- 
blue eat. He placed the cat gently down as they entered. 

“ God love ye, byes,” he cried, “ it’s a foine pair ye are, 
an’ no mistake; so it’s sick y’ve been, Maurice? ” 

“ Measles,” said Maurice. 

Harry nodded sympathetically. “ Faith, measles are a 
blissin* in disguise, as are many other afflictions,” he said. 
“ Would ye relish a swate smell and the colors av God’s 
big out av doors so much, think ye, if kept prisoner from 
thim ye never were ? I’m thinkin ’ not. 

“ Take meself,” he went on, drawing his stool closer to 
the chairs of his young friends. “All me life have I 
dhrunk more er less av the cup that cheers; but I’m 
through now, byes, not so much either because ut’s a fit av 
the blue divils the stuff give me but because I mane from 
now on to quaff the swate draft of Nature widout a bad 
taste in me mouth. I’m through wid whisky feriver, and 
ut’s Harry O’Dule, siventh son av a siventh son, so declares 
himself this day. Ut’s out into God’s blissid sunlight have 
I come afther bein’ held prisoner by a deadlier disease 
than measles, me byes.” 

The tears came to the old man’s eyes as he felt the sin- 
cere pressure of the hands held out to him. “ Begobs! but 
ut ’s a foine pair ye be, ’ ’ he muttered. Then aloud. ‘ * And 
have ye told him, Billy ? ’ ’ 

Billy nodded. 


156 


A SON OF COURAGE 


“ Well, this much more I’ll be tellin’ both av ye,” said 
Harry. “Just a bit ago two strange min stopped at me 
cabin dure. A rough lookin’ pair they were, I’m sayin’. 
Says the big one ay the two: ‘Ould man,’ says he, ‘ do 
ye know wan in these parts named Hinter? ’ ” 

“ ‘ 1 know one such, ’ ” sez I. 

* ‘ ‘ Then, ’ sez he, ‘ wull yu do me the favor av deliverin ’ 
a missage to him an’ kin ye go now? ’ says he. 

“ ‘ I kin that,’ says I.” 

“ ‘And the message,’ he says, ‘ this is ut: “ Off Gib- 
son ’s Grove at tin o ’clock, ’ ’ ’ says he. ’ ’ 

“ ‘All right,’ says I, and he put a silver dollar in me 
fist and wint away wid his companion. 

“ I delivered the missage to Hinter. And whin I 
returned to me cabin I found everythin’ in a jumble, an’ 
no mistake. Somebody had scattered the furs on me bunk 
and turned everythin’ upside down, they had, an’ they had 
sought underneath the flure, too.” 

“ An’ did they find it? ” gasped Billy. 

“ Begobs they did not,’ grinned Harry. “And I’ll be 
tellin’ ye fer why. Only this blissid mornin’, uts took the 
stuff from beneath me flure, I did, and hid it in a new 
spot.” 

Billy sighed his relief. “ Gee, but it’s lucky you did,” 
he cried. “ That’s the very thing Trigger Finger Tim 
would a’ done, ain’t it, Maurice? ” 

Maurice nodded. “I’m goin’ to stick along here an help 
you watch the stuff, Harry. Them men ’ll likely come 
prowlin’ back here.” 

“An’ torture you, Harry,” put in Billy. “Tie you to 
a tree an’ throw knives at you till you weaken an’ tell ’em 
where the stuff’s hid. That’s what they did to Trigger 
Finger.” 


OLD HARRY TURNS A TRICK 


157 


“ Faith,” cried Harry, “ ut’s divil a bit I know con- 
cernin' that man Trigger Finger, but ut’s small reward 
they’d be gettin’ fer their pains if they tied me up and 
tried torture, an’ I’ll be tellin’ ye fer why, byes. The 
stuff’s gone back to Spencer. Load ut I did meself on Joe 
Scraff ’s buckboard, not more than an hour agone. The box 
wid the black fox skins an’ two big jugs av whisky. Back 
I sent ut all, byes, wid the compliments av the both av ye 
an’ me poor self. But now it’ll be there, and the heart 
av ould Caleb ’ll be beatin’ two skips fer one wid jye at 
recoverin’ all av his stolen possessions. I did right, I hope 
now, in sindin’ ut along back? ” he finished. 

“ You bet you did ! ” cried the boys, together. 

Maurice stood up. “ Well, as there’s no need to keep 
watch here, maybe I best trail along home. Anse’ll be 
gettin’ tired waitin’ fer me.” 

“ That won’t hurt him; he’s always tired anyway,” 
rejoined Billy. “ But we’d best go.” 

At the door he paused and turned toward Harry. 
“ Where’s Gibson’s Grove? ” he asked. 

Harry, who had picked up his hat and taken his tin 
whistle from his bosom, shook his head. “ There’s no sech 
place, I’m thinkin’, ” he answered. 

Billy frowned. “ What did Hinter say when you gave 
him the message, Harry? ” 

Harry chuckled. “ Faith, ut’s crazy he thought I was 
I guess,” he cried. “ ‘ Ould man,’ sez he, ‘somebody has 
been playin’ a trick on ye. I know no such place as Gib- 
son’s Grove.’ Thin begobs! he laughed, like he saw the 
humor av ut, and had me sate meself in the shade and 
smoke a cigar while I risted. So I’m thinkin’, byes, them 
min jest wanted to get rid av me the while they ransacked 
me house and belongin’s, bad cess to ’em! ” 


158 


A SON OF COURAGE 


Billy laughed. “ Come along as far as the clearin’ 
Harry/ ’ he invited, “ and play us a tune thatH cheer 
Maurice up, will you? ” 

“ Faith, an' that I’ll do,” cried O’Dule. “ Lift him a 
chune I wull that’ll make his laggin’ feet dance, and his 
laggin’ spirit look up above the slough av despond” 

And so down the path ridged with the bronze bars of 
late afternoon sunlight, they passed, Harry strutting in 
the lead, wrinkled face lifted, scanty white locks streaming 
in the breeze as he drew from his whistle a wild sweet 
melody. 

“ There now,” he cried, when at last the clearing was 
reached, and the whistle was tucked away in the bosom 
of his flannel shirt, “ I’ll be partin’ wid ye now, byes, fer 
a spell. Over to Spencer ’s store I ’ll be goin ’, to glimpse the 
jye in his eyes, and axe him to trust me fer a few groceries 
I ’ll be needin ’ till me next allowance arrives from the home 
land. And ut’s no doubt I have in me mind that bell do 
ut gladly, fer ut’s a tinder man he is at heart an’ no 
mistake. ’ ’ 


CHAPTER XV 


BILLY’S PROBLEMS MULTIPLY 

Recovery of the stolen goods caused considerable excite- 
ment in the Settlement. For a week or so nothing else was 
talked of and conjecture ran rife as to why the thieves had 
not made off with their pillage rather than hide it in the 
haunted house. Harry O’Dule came in for a plenty of 
praise for the part he had played in finding the loot but 
beyond hinting that the job had been more than easy for 
the seventh son of a seventh son, he was reticent on the 
subject. That he should have returned the liquor almost 
intact, to the owner, was a conundrum to all who knew 
him, with the exception of Billy and Maurice. 

Billy was anything but easy in his mind during these 
exciting days. Who were the two strangers who had 
searched old Harry’s hut? Were they the same two he 
and Maurice had seen in the woods on the night of the 
storm ? If so, why did they send a message to Hinter, and 
what was its significance? Where was Gibson’s Grove, 
anyway? These questions bothered him, and pondering 
upon them robbed him of appetite and sleep. Maurice and 
Elgin were no help to him in a dilemma of this kind and 
the new boy, Jim Scroggie, he knew scarcely well enough 
to trust. 

It was, perhaps, just as well for Anson that he kept out 
of Billy ’s way during this period. However very little that 
Billy did was missed by his pale blue eyes. He knew that 
his step-brother had visited the haunted house alone and 
had searched it nook and comer. For what ? He had seen 

159 


160 


A SON OF COURAGE 


him fasten his rabbit-foot to a branch of a tree and dig, 
and dig. For what ? He wanted to find out but dared not 
ask. Perhaps Billy was going crazy! He acted like it. 
Anson made up his mind that he would confide his sus- 
picions in his mother. But on the very day that he had 
decided to pour into Mrs. Wilson’s ear all the strange 
goings-on of his brother, Billy caught him out on a forest- 
path alone and, gripping him by the shoulder, threatened 
to conjure up by means of witchcraft at his command a 
seven-headed dragon with cat-fish hooks for claws who 
would rip his — Anson ’s — soul to shreds if he so much as 
breathed to his mother one word of what he had seen. 

In vain Anson declared he didn’t know anything to tell. 
Billy looked at him calmly. 4 ‘You been follerin’ me an’ I 
know it,” he said. “ Croaker saw you, an’ so did Ringdo.” 

Anson’s mouth fell open in terror. “ You don’t 
mean — ” he commenced, then gulped, unable to proceed. 

“ That Croaker’s a witch? Of course he’s a witch, an’ 
so ’s Ringdo. They both know exactly what you ’re thinkin ’, 
an’ what you’re doin’. Listen, you,” as Anse shivered. 
“ Didn’t you dream, jest t’other night, that Croaker was 
ben din’ over you to peck your eyes out? ” 

Anse nodded a reluctant admission. 

“ Well, s’pose it wasn’t any dream? S’pose it was all 
real? An’ s’pose, if I hadn’t waked up in time. to stop 
him, he’d have picked your eyes out an’ put in fisheyes in 
their place? Then you couldn’t see anythin’ unless you 
was under water. An’ s’pose, when I asked Croaker what 
he wanted to do that awful thing fer, he up an’ told me 
that you’d been spyin’ on me an’ you didn’t deserve to 
own human eyes? I say s’pose all this. Now then, Anse, 
you best mind your own business an’ let your mouth freeze 
up close, else you’re goin’ to have an awful time of it. If 


BILLY’S PROBLEMS MULTIPLY 161 

I get Croaker to say he won’t gouge your eyes out till I 
give the word it’s more’n you deserve.” 

Hope stirred in Anson’s fear ridden soul — hope which 
Billy remorselessly killed with his next words. 

‘ * But I couldn ’t get no promise out ’o Ringdo. He says 
you ’re worlrin ’ ’gainst us. ’ ’ 

“ But I ain’t, Bill. Cross my heart, I ain’t,” protested 
Anson. 4 4 Why should I be ? ” 

4 4 Maybe jest ’cause you’re a sneak,” Billy answered, 
“but you’re my brother an’ I don’t want anythin’ horrible 
to happen to you if I kin help it. The best thing fer you 
to do is keep mum, an’ when you see me strikin’ off any- 
where look t’other way.” 

“An’ you’ll see that Ringdo don’t bite me, Bill? ” 
pleaded Anson. 44 You’ll keep him off me, won’t you? ” 

Billy considered, 44 I’ll try,” he promised, 44 but it’s 
goin’ to take a whole lot of coaxin’ to do it. That old 
witchcoon has been prowlin’ down through the tamarack 
swale huntin’ copperhead snakes for a week now, gettin’ 
ready to do fer somebody er other.” 

44 Oh gollies! ” gasped Anson. 44 What’s he huntin’ cop- 
perheads fer, Bill? ” 

44 Why to poison his teeth with. He’s loadin’ up fer 
somebody, sure as shootin’. Gosh! I am sorry you’ve been 
sech a fool, Anse. Jest think, one little scratch from that 
coon’s teeth and — ” 

44 Bill,” Anson’s voice was husky with terror. 4 4 You 
won’t let him touch me, will you, Bill? ” 

44 I’ll keep him away from you so long as you keep away 
from us, an’ hold a close tongue in your head,” Billy prom- 
ised. 44 Understand though, it’s goin’ to be a mighty hard 
thing to do; I saw him trying the bark of that elm jest 
under our winder only this momin’. He’s likely aimin’ to 


162 


A SON OF COURAGE 


shin up that tree an’ fall on your face, most any night, so 
if you want your eyes an’ your life you’d better do what 
I say.” 

“ I’ll do jest as you say, Bill,” Anse promised, fervently, 
and Billy knew that he meant it. “All right, that’s a go,” 
he said and went off to the menagerie to feed his pets. 

***** 

Something else was to happen shortly to make Billy feel 
that his world was full of mysterious agents sent for no 
other purpose than to give him fresh worries. 

That evening, as he drove the cattle down along the 
Causeway for water he met two teams of horses hauling 
loads of greasy-looking timbers and black, oily pipes. The 
men who drove the teams were strangers to him. Scroggie, 
or Heir Scroggie, as he was now commonly called in the 
neighborhood, sat beside the driver of one of the wagons. 

“ He’s movin’ a saw-mill up into the big woods,” thought 
Billy. “ But where in the world did it come from? ” he 
pondered as he looked after the creaking loads. 

He was not long to remain in doubt on that point. As 
he approached the lake road another load of timbers and 
metal rounded the comer. Two men were seated on the 
load, a big, broad-shouldered man and a thin one. Some 
little distance behind another man was walking. It was 
Hinter. 

As the load drew close to where Billy stood partly con- 
cealed by a clump of red willows, the driver halted his 
team for a rest after the pull through the heavy sand, and 
apparently not noticing the boy, spoke in guarded tones to 
his companion. 

“ If I had only listened to you, Jack, we wouldn’t have 
I c t that whisky, ” he said. “ I was dead sure nobody would 


/ 


BILLY’S PROBLEMS MULTIPLY 


183 


go near that place. And at that we didn’t find what we did 
the job to get, did we? It’ll be just our luck to have that 
will turn up in time to cook our goose, yet.” 

“ Well, Tom, I reckon it’s none of our funeral whether 
it turns up or not,” growled the other. “We’re gettin’ 
paid well fer what we’re doin’, ain’t we? If it turns up, 
Scroggie and the boss ’ll have to do their own worryin’.” 

The driver cracked his whip and the load went on, sway- 
ing and creaking as it left the soft sand for the corduroy. 

A little further on Billy came face to face with Hinter. 
“ How are you, Billy? ” spoke the man, pleasantly. “ Still 
driving the cows down to the lake for water, I see.” 

“Yep; they don’t seem to take to the crick water,” 
Billy replied. “ It’s sort of scummy an’ smells queer.” 

Hinter laughed constrainedly. “I’ve been pretty well 
through the Settlement, and most of the creeks are like 
that, ’ ’ he replied. ‘ ‘ What do you suppose causes that scum 
and that peculiar odor ? ” he asked, casually. 

The boy shook his head. “ I dunno ; them cricks shouldn’t 
be that way; they’re all spring-fed. Maybe you know? ” 
looking straight into Hinter ’s eyes. 

“ No,” said Hinter, startled at the directness of look 
and question. “ I don’t know.” 

He turned abruptly away to follow the wagons but 
Billy ’s voice stopped him. 

“ Mr. Hinter, where did that stuff on them wagons come 
from? ” 

“ Why, it belongs to Mr. Scroggie,” Hinter answered. 
“ It was brought across from Ohio by schooner. You know 
what it is, I suppose? ” 

“ I take it it’s machinery an’ stuff for a saw-mill,” 
answered Billy moodily. “ Is it? ” 

“ No. It’s a couple of boring rigs, Billy. Mr. Scroggie 


164 


A SON OP COUEAGE 


is going to earn the good will of all of ns here by boring for 
water and giving ns fine wells on our farms. Don’t yon 
think that is mighty good of him? ” 

“ Yes, sir. If we had a good well I wouldn’t have to 
drive the cows down to the lake every night, like this.” 

“ That’s so, Billy.” Hinter laughed and slapped the 
lad’s shoulder. “ Well I’ll see that he bores on your 
daddy’s farm just as soon as he strikes water on his own. 
I intend to help him get started, because I think it’s going 
to be a good thing for everybody. Besides, I know boring- 
rigs from bit to derrick. It’s my trade, you see.” 

Billy nodded. “An’ is the schooner still anchored off 
here? ” he asked. “ I might take a fish-boat an’ row out 
to her, if she is.” 

“ No,” Hinter answered. “ She didn’t anchor off here; 
water’s too shallow. She anchored off Gibson’s Grove, five 
miles up the point. She’s on her way back to Cleveland 
by now.” 

He was already several paces away, anxious to overtake 
the wagon. Billy stood looking after him, a frown on his 
brow. “ Gibson’s Grove,” he repeated. “ So that’s where 
Gibson ’s Grove is ! ” Then the message which the strangers 
had sent by old Harry might have had some significance, 
after all. 

Billy passed on slowly after his cows, up through the 
spicy pines to the pebbled beach of the lake, pondering for 
a solution to the biggest problem his young mind had ever 
had to wrestle with. He seated himself on the prow of the 
big fish-boat, his eyes on the thirsty cattle now belly-deep 
in the blue water, drinking their fill. Along the shore stood 
the big reels used for holding the seines and nets when not 
in use. The twine had been newly coal-tarred and the 
pungent odor of the tar mingled pleasingly with the breath 


BILLY’S PROBLEMS MULTIPLY 


165 


of pine and the sweet freshness of the sun-warmed water. 

Billy’s eyes strayed to those reels and he sighed to think 
that the washing and retarring of the nets was just another 
sign that the glad summer holidays would soon be over and 
the drab days of fall — and school — would soon be there. 
A low-flying flock of black ducks passed over his head in 
flight from the lake’s bosom where they had rested through 
the day to the marsh feeding grounds across the point, and 
the shadow passed from the boy’s face. 

After all fall had its compensations. Glorious days 
beneath lowering skies in a wind-whipped blind were 
before him ; stormy days when the ducks would sweep in to 
his decoys and his old “ double-barrel ” would take toll. 
If only Frank Stanhope was to be the teacher instead of 
that cold-eyed, mean looking Johnston. He knew he would 
not get along with Johnston. And school was to open on 
Monday. Great Scott ! The very thought made him shiver. 

The cows waded to shore slowly, pausing to brush the 
troublesome flies from bulging sides with moist noses, halt- 
ing to drink again and again, loath to leave this great 
body of eool delicious water. Billy did not hurry them. 
He thought he understood their feelings in the matter. It 
would be a long while before they would have a chance to 
drink again. It must be awful, he reasoned, to have to do 
without a drink so long. The thought made him thirsty. 
With his hand* he scooped a hole close to the edge of the 
lake, and slowly the miniature well filled with milky water, 
which immediately cleared, and lay before him limpid and 
sweet and fit for king or thirsty boy. 

He stretched himself full length on the sand, and drank. 
When he arose, wiping his mouth, the cows had moved off 
lazily towards the Causeway. Billy did not follow at once. 
He did not want to miss the dance of the fire-flies above 


166 


A SON OF COURAGE 


the darkening marsh along the Causeway, the twilight 
blush on the pine tips of Point Aux forest, the light-house 
gleam, nor the prayer-time hush of the mystery-filled 
rush-land. So he tarried beside the lake until the pines 
and cedars had melted into indistinct masses and the call 
of the whip-poor-will sounded faintly from far away. Then 
he turned homeward. 

As he left the pine grove for the main road he discerned 
a lone figure standing on the Causeway, with head lifted 
and turned towards the still faintly glowing west, and his 
footsteps quickened. 

“ Teacher,” he cried in surprise, “ you here? ” 

Frank Stanhope turned slowly and held out his hands. 

“ Billy Boy,” he said, with a smile, “ I had to come, at 
last. Every time you have offered to guide me to this old 
spot we knew and loved and enjoyed together I have 
refused because — because I thought I couldn’t stand it; 
because I am unable to see what my heart and senses tell 
me is here. But tonight I groped my way down, knowing 
that you would find me and help me home. 

He placed his hand on Billy’s shoulder, and turned once 
again toward the bay. “I am blind,” he said, softly, 

‘ * but I can tell you how it looks across yonder. There ’s a 
white splash of water between deep shadows, and there’s 
just a faint tinge of crimson above the tree-tops. The mist 
is rising off the marsh; the fire-flies are playing cross-tag 
above the cat-tails. The light-house — ’ ’ 

He paused abruptly, and the boy felt the hand on his 
shoulder tremble. 

“You tell me, Billy,” he said huskily — “ tell me if the 
light shines as brightly as when we watched it together.” 

“ Why, teacher, it’s jest as bright as ever,” cried the 
boy. “ It fair seems to laugh as it swings ’round an’ 


BILLY’S PROBLEMS MULTIPLY 


167 


jumps down the bay like a long, white arm.” 

“ Does it, Billy, does it? ” cried the man, eagerly. 

“ Yep, an’ everythin’ else is jest like you said, too, only 
the red streaks have gone from above the trees now.” 

“ But the light is the same, isn’t it, Billy? ” 

“Jest the same as ever. There, teacher, it fair laughed 
right out at us then.” 

“ Did it, Billy, did it? And is my face turned towards 
it now, Billy? ” 

“ Not quite. There, now you are facin’ it.” 

“ Thanks. Now you mustn’t tell me when it comes again 
— the light — I want to see if I can feel it. I hope — ” 

He caught his breath and stood with lifted face, as the 
white light swept it, lingered on it, drew from it reluctantly. 

“ Thank God,” he whispered, and stood trembling. 
Then, as though to himself, he said softly: “ It is as though 
her soft hand touched these eyes that will never see again.” 

Then, as the first note of a night-bird came soft and 
fluted from a distant willow copse, Billy took his hand and 
drew him up along the corduroy road stretching through 
the shadows. 


CHAPTER XYI 


BILLY MEETS A DIVINITY 

Billy spent the days preceding the reopening of the 
Valley School much as a criminal awaiting execution might 
spend his last hours of life. The fact that Trigger Finger 
Tim had always accepted the inevitable sentence of fate 
with calm and undaunted spirit was the one buoy to which 
he might cling in a turbulent sea of uncertainty. There 
had been so much to do; so little had been done. The 
hiding place of old Scroggie’s will was still a secret; no 
check had been put upon the preparations of the inter- 
loper who claimed to be the heir of the Scroggie estate; 
the mystery surrounding the store robbery remained a 
mystery ; his friend Frank Stanhope was growing thin and 
pale from secret suffering. And on Monday morning the 
Valley School would open ! 

It was tough ! Billy felt sure that had he been allowed 
a little more time he might have solved one or more of the 
problems which weighed him down. He felt like a man 
who was being cut suddenly off from his usefulness. Sat- 
urday he spent roaming the big woods alone. On Satur- 
day evening Maurice came over and the two went down to 
Levee Creek, set sail in the old punt and steered up-bay 
towards the light-house. 

Arriving they found Hinter there, so did not remain 
long. It was while Erie Landon was preparing a lunch 
for them that Billy got an opportunity to whisper some- 
thing in her ear. The girl's cheeks flushed and her blue 
eyes grew deep with feeling. 

168 


BILLY MEETS A DIVINITY 


169 


“ You tell him, Billy Boy, that the light he feels is my 
promise of fidelity/ ’ she said softly, “ my love, my pray- 
ers, my hope. And tell him that I know all will be well.” 

That night, after separating from Maurice, Billy went 
over to the Stanhope cottage. It was late but Prank Stan- 
hope was standing beside the white gate, his arms folded 
on its top, his chin upon them. 

He raised his face at sound of the boy’s step. “ Ho, 
Billy ! ” he called cheerfully. “ Is it you ? ’ ’ 

“ Yes, teacher,” Billy came close to him and the two 
stood for a long time in the silence of mute understanding. 
Then the boy delivered the message just as Erie had whis- 
pered it. Stanhope did not speak. He simply lifted his 
face to the stars, eyes streaming, lips moving dumbly. 
Billy moved softly away through the shadows. 

Next day was Sunday and Billy did not like Sundays. 
They meant the scrubbing of his face, ears and neck with 
“ Old Brown Windsor ” soap until it fairly cracked if he 
so much as smiled, and being lugged off with his parents 
and Anse to early forenoon Sunday School in the little 
frame church in the Valley. There was nothing interesting 
about Sunday School ; it was the same old hum-drum over 
and over again — same lessons, same teachers, same hymns, 
same tunes; with Deacon Ringold’s assertive voice cutting 
in above all the other voices both in lessons and singing 
and with Mrs. Scraff ’s shrill treble reciting, for her class’s 
edification, her pet verse : ‘ * Am I nothing to thee, all ye 
who pass by ? ” — only Mrs. Scraff always improvised more 
or less on the scriptures, and usually threw the verse defi- 
antly from her in this form : 4 ‘ You ain ’t nuthin to me, 
all you who pass me by.” 

Billy knew exactly what he was going to hear at Sunday 
School, and what he was going to see, and there wasn’t 


170 


A SON OF COURAGE 


much of interest in that for a live boy. Consequently he 
was quite unprepared for the unexpected shock he received 
on this particular morning, when he trailed dejectedly into 
the Sunday School room behind his mother and Anson. 

As he passed up the aisle something strange and mys- 
terious seemed to draw his eyes toward a certain spot. He 
looked and there, gazing at him from eyes of blue, rose- 
bud lips half parted in a smile, was a girl — and such a 
girl! 

Billy stood stock still in the aisle and stared at the vision 
of loveliness. She was dressed in white and her hair was 
curly and as golden as that of the pictured angel in his 
mother’s Bible. Never before had he seen such a gloriously 
beautiful creature. 

He became conscious that the droning hum of teachers 
and classes had given place to hushed calm; that all eyes 
were turned upon him, standing there in the aisle and 
staring at this picture of absolute perfection. With an 
effort he drew his eyes away and stumbled forward to his 
place in class. 

Several times during the next half hour Billy, allowing 
his gaze to wander across the church, caught those blue 
eyes fastened upon him and his heart began to flutter 
strangely. An ungovernable desire to misbehave himself 
took possession of him. Never in his life had his head felt 
so light — unless it was the night when he and Maurice 
had inadvertently mistaken hard cider for sweet and had 
nearly disgraced themselves. He was not even aware of 
who was beside him on his seat, until a pair of stubby 
fingers pinched his leg and he came down to earth to look 
into Jim Scroggie’s grinning face. 

“ Oh, hello , 9 ’ he whispered, coldly. He was irritated at 
such unwarranted interruption of his soul-feast. He settled 


BILLY MEETS A DIVINITY 


171 


low in his seat and pretended to give his attention to the 
teacher, Cobin Keeler. 

Jim nudged him. “ What you think of her? ” he asked 
proudly. 

Billy frowned. “ Who? ” 

Jim nodded across to the girl in white. “ That’s Lou,” 
he informed Billy, 1 ‘ my sister. ’ 9 

Billy gave such a perceptible start that he knocked the 
“ Sunday Lesson Helps ” sheet out of the hands of Elgin 
Scratf, on his left. That this snub-nosed, flat-faced, beefy 
boy beside him could possibly be a brother to the dainty, 
angelic creature who had caused his heart to turn such 
violent flip-flops and disorganize his whole mental poise 
was inconceivable. 

And still, it must be true. Immediately his manner 
towards Scroggie underwent a change. All the antipathy 
that a woods-bom boy can feel toward a city-bred one 
vanished suddenly at the intelligence imparted to him. It 
was the look of true comradeship, the smile that always 
won him confidence and fidelity, that he gave Jim now, as 
he whispered: “ Any time you want ’a borrie my shot-gun, 
Jim, jest let me know.” 

Scroggie beamed. Being the son of his father he lacked 
nothing in astuteness. He realized, as all brothers realize 
sooner or later, that a pretty sister is an asset. 

“ An’ the punt too? ” he asked. 

Billy nodded. Jim, had he but known it, might have 
had everything Billy owned, including Croaker, Ringdo, 
Moll and the pups. 

Mr. Keeler had finished the reading of the lesson, skip- 
ping most of the big words and laying particular stress on 
those he was sure of, and had stood up facing his class of 
boys, to ask them certain questions pertaining to the lesson, 


172 


A SON OF COURAGE 


thereby bringing all whispered conversation to a halt. He 
cleared his throat and ran a critical eye down the line of 
upturned faces. When Mr. Keeler asked a question it was 
in a booming voice that carried from pulpit to ante-room 
of the building. 

“ Kin any boy in this here class tell me why Christ 
walked on the sea of Galilee? ” he now asked. 

Nobody answered. Billy, casting a quick glance across 
the aisle, found Lou Scroggie’s blue eyes watching him 
intently. They seemed to say “ Surely, you can answer 
that/’ 

Billy shifted uneasily in his seat. He was sorry now 
that he had not paid closer attention to the reading of the 
lesson. 

“ Why did Christ walk on the sea of Galilee? ” repeated 
Mr. Keeler, folding his arms impressively and looking 
hard at Billy, who once more shot a side-long glance across 
the room. The blue eyes were wide open with wonder and 
astonishment now, that he could not answer so simple a 
question as that. Billy’s mind worked with lightning 
speed. He would answer that question if it cost him his 
life. Promptly he stood up. 

Mr. Keeler looked surprised; so did Billy’s elass-mates; 
eo did all members of all the classes and the teachers. So 
did Billy himself. The drowsy hum of reeiting voices 
died suddenly and a great stillness succeeded it. It seemed 
to Billy that he was standing alone on top of a flimsy 
scaffold, hundreds of feet in the air, waiting for Mr. 
Keeler, high executioner, to spring the trap-door that 
would launch him into oblivion. 

He glanced at the window. It was raised but a few 
inches; exit was effectively closed in that direction. He 
made up his mind to reach for his hat and walk with dig- 


BILLY MEETS A DIVINITY 


173 


nity from the class, the church and those soulless, sinister- 
faced people who watched and waited gloatingly for his 
downfall. No, there was still a better plan. He would 
stagger and grope his way out like one who had been sud- 
denly stricken with sickness. Yes, that was what he 
would do. 

Then through the haze of uncertainty two wide blue eyes 
seemed to meet his own ; eyes that smiled to him confidence 
in his ability to make good; eyes that said as plainly as 
words: “ I knew you could do it.” 

Billy braced himself. At the same time he caught a 
glimpse of Anson’s leering face and inwardly vowed that 
that young man should have plenty of reason to regret 
that leer. 

Mr. Keeler was leaning across the back of the long seat, 
smiling commendingly upon him. 

“ William Wilson will tell us why Christ walked on the 
sea of Galilee,’ ’ he boomed. “ Come William, answer up, 
my boy.” 

Billy drew in his breath hard. He fully intended that 
none of those straining ears should miss his answer. Sud- 
denly it had oome to him that it was an easy question to 
answer ; there could in fact be but one answer to it. 

“ Because He didn’t have no boat! ” 

In the deep silence following his answer Billy sat down. 
Then a murmur of gasps, whispers and giggles grew up, 
which died suddenly to silence again, as Mr. Keeler’s voice 
rang out. 

“ Correct! Now, boys, we will get on with our lesson.” 

During the closing hymn Billy managed to evade the 
eyes of his elders long enough to slip outside. He wanted 
to be alone — alone to ponder over this great and wonderful 
thing that had come into his life. It was love — yes it 


174 


A SON OF COURAGE 


certainly was love, strong worshipful love such as comes 
to but few, and to those few only once. Such love had 
made Trigger Finger Tim leap a fifty-foot chasm, swim 
a swift, ice-encumbered river and fight single-handed a 
band of painted savages to free his sweetheart from their 
murderous clutches. Billy knew that he would do as much 
for her! 

He strayed into the beech grove sighing, striving to 
realize all that had suddenly happened to him. Never in 
all his dreams had he imagined such a face could belong 
to mortal girl. He must see her again — yes, he must see 
her soon again — perhaps speak with her. The very 
thought of it made him dizzy. 

He wanted to tear up a sapling by the roots and bust 
something with it, wanted to shout, wanted to let all the 
world know his joy. But he didn’t. He compromised by 
standing on his head and walking the full length of the 
mossy grove on his hands. 

That day at dinner for the first time in his life he found 
it impossible to eat. Food choked him. He left the others 
eating, with a word or two about having eaten heartily of 
thimble-berries and not caring for anything more. 

Out in the shed he found Moll, anxious over one of her 
pups which seemed stupid and sick. Billy picked up the 
pup and cuddled it. He found himself crying over its 
sniffling whimpers of pain. Love is a grand thing if only 
because of the softening influence it exerts in the savage 
breast of man. Billy could not remember ever having 
actually cried over a sick puppy before. It was as though 
she stood there, white hands clasped, blue eyes filled with 
commiseration, the gold of her hair forming a halo above 
her bent head. He could almost hear her voice saying: 
“ Great, tender heart, cease thy tears. Am I not close 


BILLY MEETS A DIVINITY 


m 

beside thee to help thee bear thy sorrow? ” That’s what 
Avilee Rochaw had said to Trigger Finger, in the book. 

He put the pup tenderly down beside its mother and 
went out behind the wood-pile to wait for Anse. He 
wanted to tell him that he forgave him for being such a 
low-down tattle-tale and the meanest brother that ever 
lived. That’s what she would have him do, he knew. He 
was a changed being. If he was to win her love, he was 
going to be worthy. 

He waited for an hour but Anson did not come. How 
was he to know that Billy had undergone a change of 
heart? Had he not caught the cold glint in Billy’s eyes, 
when he had sneered at him in the class? Previous expe- 
riences had taught him caution. He had watched his 
brother go out behind the wood-pile and had promptly 
made tracks in the opposite direction. 

At supper time Billy’s appetite had not returned. He 
did make something of a pretense at eating but it did not 
deceive the eyes of his watchful mother, who for reasons 
of her own restrained herself from making any reference 
to his mopishness. 

That night as he was undressing for bed Mrs. Wilson 
came softly up the stairs, a tumbler half filled with a 
smoky liquid in one hand, a black strap in the other. 

“ Here, you Willium,” she commanded, “ you drink 
these here salts and not a word out o’ you, or I’ll tan you 
good and plenty.’’ 

Billy turned slowly, his fingers fumbling with his cotton 
braces. He looked at the noxious dose in the tumbler, then 
at his mother’s face. “ All right,” he said gently, “I’ll 
take ’em, Ma; give ’em here.” 

His mother gasped. Whatever was coming over the boy, 
she wondered. Never before had she been able to get a 


176 


A SON OF COURAGE 


dose of medicine down him without a struggle. There 
could be only one answer. He was sick — sicker than he 
let on. 

She set the glass on the little table and let the strap 
slip to the floor. She put her hands on his shoulders and 
turned him about so that the light fell full on his face. 
She saw that it was really pale — yes, and wistful. Anse 
had told her about having seen Billy kiss the pup and cry 
over it. Now a lump came into her throat as she looked 
into the grey, unwavering eyes. With a sob, she threw 
her arms about his neck and drew him close to her. Billy 
patted her shoulder and let her cry. He could not guess 
her reason for it, but for that matter he could not under- 
stand why he was crying too, unless indeed it was his great 
and worshipful love still working overtime. 

Mrs. Wilson subsided at last and wiped her eyes on her 
apron. Then she took Billy’s face between her hands and 
kissed him on the freckled nose. “ I know how much you 
miss your own Ma, Willium,” she said, “ and I know I 
kin never take her place, but I love you, an ’ it worries me 
awful to think anythin’ might happen to you.” 

“ Nuthin’s goin’ to happen to me, Ma,” Billy assured 
her. “ I’m feelin’ bully. Don’t you worry none.” 

Mrs. Wilson sighed. “ Well, if you’re sure you don’t 
need these here salts — ” she lifted the glass and stood 
hesitating, “ why, I don’t s’pose there’s re’lly any call 
for you to take ’em. It seems too bad to waste ’em, 
though.” 

Billy turned toward Anson’s bed, from which, for the 
second time, he was sure had come a faint titter. “ I was 
thinkin’,” he said in answer to his mother’s quick look, 
“ that it wouldn’t hurt Anse none to have a dose. He does 
grit his teeth somethin’ awful when he’s asleep.” 


BILLY MEETS A DIVINITY 


177 


“You don’t tell me, Willium! Why then, salts is jest 
what he needs. I’ll wake him up an’ give ’em to him.” 

***** 

It was long after his mother had left the loft and Anse’s 
wails of protest and wild promises of vengeance had given 
place to the regular breathing of peaceful sleep that Billy 
lay awake, gazing wide-eyed through the dark. 

Above him bent a face with tender blue eyes and red, 
half-smiling lips beneath a crowning glory as golden as 
frost-pinched maple leaf. And she would be at school in 
the morning! It was while pondering on how he might 
contrive to wear his Sunday clothes on the morrow that 
Billy fell asleep to dream that he was old man Scroggie’s 
ghost and that he was sitting in the centre of Lake Erie 
with the big hardwoods bush on his knees, waiting for her 
to come that he might present it all to her. 


CHAPTER XVII 


THE DREAD DAY DAWNS 

It was broad daylight when Anson, in response to an 
angry call from the bottom of the stairway, sat up in bed. 
Vaguely he realized that in some dire way this glad morn- 
ing proclaimed a day of doom, but his drowsy senses were 
still leaping vast chasms of dreamland — striving to slip 
from the control of saner reasoning and drift away with 
a happy abandon of dire results to follow. What boy has 
not had the same experience, even although he knew that 
a razor-strop, wielded by a vigorous hand, would in all 
probability accomplish quickly what his drowsy will had 
failed to accomplish? Anson was just dropping off into 
the lulling arms of Morpheus when that extra sense, pos- 
sessed by all boys in a measure and by certain boys in 
particular, warned him back to wakefulness and a realiza- 
tion of his danger. 

He was out of bed and pulling his braces over his shoul- 
ders by the time the heavy footsteps of his mother sounded 
at the top of the stairs. 

“ You, Anse! ” came Mrs. Wilson’s voice. “ Have I 
gotta limber you up with the strap, after all? ” 

“ Cornin’, Ma,” responded Anse, sleepily. 

“ Well, you’d best come quick, then. You’ll be gettin’ 
enough hidin’s today — if that new teacher’s any good — 
without me havin’ to wear my arm out on you ’fore 
breakfast.” 

Anson stood still, fumbling the buttons. So that was 
it! School! He knew it was some awful catastrophe. 

178 


THE DREAD DAY DAWNS 


179 


Where was Billy? He glanced across at the other bed. 
Billy was not in it. He went slowly downstairs, washed 
himself, and went in to breakfast. Billy was not there. 
His father was just getting up from the table. 

“ Where’s Bill? ” Anson asked him. 

“ Down feedin’ his pets, most likely,” answered his 
father as he went out. A moment or two later Billy came 
in. The boys seated themselves in their places and ate 
their breakfast in silence. 

“ Is our dinner up, Ma? ” Billy asked, as he pushed 
back his chair. 

Mrs. Wilson nodded. “ It is. Two pieces of bread an’ 
butter an’ a doughnut an’ a tart fer each of you. Is it 
enough? ” 

‘ ‘ I guess so, ’ ’ Billy replied indifferently. 

Anson eyed him suspiciously, then turned to his mother. 
“ I wish’t you’d do our dinners up separate, Ma,” he 
whined. 

“ Why? ” asked Mrs. Wilson, in surprise. 

“ Well, ’cause Bill hogs it, that’s why,” complained 
Anson. “ Last time we had tarts I didn’t get none. An’ 
it’s the same with pie an’ cake.” 

Mrs. Wilson gazed sternly at Billy. “ Willium, do you 
take Anson’s tarts and pie? ” she asked ominously. 

“ Yes, ma’am,” answered Billy, promptly. 

“ There now! ” exulted Anson, glancing triumphantly 
at his mother, who sat staring and incredulous at the 
unabashed offender. 

Billy looked gravely down at his accuser, then appre- 
hensively at his judge. As no immediate sentence seemed 
forthcoming he turned toward the door. 

“Stop! ” Mrs. Wilson had risen suddenly from her 
chair and stood pointing an accusing finger at Billy. 


180 


A SON OF COURAGE 


“ You’ll ketch it fer this, an’ don’t you ferget it,” she 
stormed, * ‘ an’ if I ever hear of you gobblin’ up Anson’s 
share o’ the lunch ag’in, you young glutton, you’ll go to 
school fer a month without any lunch a ’tall.” 

Billy turned. “ I didn’t say I ate Anson’s pie an’ cake, 
Ma, ” he said gently. 4 ‘ I didn ’t take it ’cause I wanted it. ’ ’ 

“ Then why did you take it a ’tall, I want ’a know? ” 

“ I took it ’cause I thought it was bad fer him. You 
see, Ma, Anse suffers turrible from indigestion,” Billy 
explained. “ ’Course maybe you don’t notice it same as 
I do, ’cause you don’t sleep in the same room with him. 
But Ma, he groans an’ gasps all night — an’ he has the 
most awful dreams — now don’t you Anse? ” he asked, 
turning to his brother. 

Anson started to whimper. “ I do have bad dreams,” 
he confessed miserably, “ but pie an’ tarts ain’t to blame 
fer it.” 

“ Silence, you! ” Mrs. Wilson reached for the dinner- 
pail and proceeded to extract from it one tart, one dough- 
nut. “ I guess maybe your brother’s right,” she said 
grimly. “ If that’s the way you carry on nights we’ll hold 
you off pastry fer a while. Now then, grab that pail and 
off to school with both o’ you! ” 

Billy was outside first and waiting for Anson at the road 
gate when he came down the path, dejectedly wiping his 
eyes and vowing inaudible threats at the agent of his 
new woe. 

“ Now, then,” said Billy as he came up, “ maybe you’ll 
begin to see that it don’t pay to blab so danged much.” 

“ It was dirty mean of you,” sniffled Anson. 4 4 You 
know how much I like pie an’ tarts; an’ here I am havin’ 
to lug youm an’ gettin’ none fer myself. Fer two cents 
I’d chuck this dinner-pail in the crick.” 


THE DREAD DAY DAWNS 


181 


“ An’ fer two cents I’d punch that crooked eye of yourn 
straight,” cried Billy, his temper rising. “ You’d best 
close your mouth while the closin’s good, an’ if anythin’ 
happens to that pail you’re goin’ to hear from me.” 

They passed on in silence until the hardwood grove came 
in sight. Here Billy paused. “You go on, Anse,” he 
said. “I’m goin’ over to the menagerie fer a look over 
things. An’ see here.” He grabbed his brother’s shoulder 
and swung him about. “I’m goin’ to tell you somethin’, 
an’ if you so much as peep it to Ma I’m goin’ to pass the 
word to Ringdo an Croaker that they’re free to do what 
they like to you; see? ” 

Anson shuddered. “Aw, who’s goin’ to peep?” he 
returned. 

“ All right then. Now listen. This momin’ I tied my 
Sunday clothes up an’ throwed ’em out our winder. Then 
I got up an’ sneaked ’em over to the menagerie. I’m goin’ 
to wear ’em to school. Never you mind why, it’s none of 
your business. When I blow into school this momin’ 
dressed to kill I don’t want you to look too darned sur- 
prised, that’s all. Now if you’ll keep your mouth shut 
tight about that I promise not to let my witch-coon an’ 
witch-crow eat you while you sleep; an’ I’ll tell you what 
else I’ll do, I’ll give you my tart an’ my doughnut. Is it 
a bargain? ” 

Anson nodded eagerly. 

“ All hunky. Now you move along, an’ if you happen 
to meet Fatty Watland, er Maurice, er any other boys, 
don’t you let on a word about this.” 

“ I won’t,” promised Anson. “ Cross my heart, Bill.” 

Billy ducked into the path through the grove and Anson 
resumed his reluctant pace toward the Valley School. On 
the bridge across Levee creek he came up with Elgin 


182 


A SON OF COURAGE 


Scraff. Elgin was standing with his arms on the bridge 
rail, looking dejectedly down into the water. 

“ Hello,’ ’ Anson accosted. <i Goin’ to school? ” 

Elgin lifted his head slowly. “ Yep, you? ” 

Anson nodded and set the dinner-pail down on the 
bridge. 

“ Where’s Bill? ” 

“He’ll be along soon. Here he comes now; no ’taint 
neither, it’s Fatty Watland. Wonder where he’s been up 
that way? ” 

Watland came puffing up, his round face red and per- 
spiring. “ Gee! ” he panted, “ I’ve been all the way to 
the store. Had to get some sulphur fer Ma. She found 
a wood-tick that old Sport scratched off him on the floor, 
an’ she swears it’s a bed-bug; an’ now she’s goin’ to burn 
this sulphur in all the rooms.” 

A grin rippled across his face and grew into a chuckle. 
“ I bet I sleep in the bam fer a week. I sure hate the 
smell of sulphur.” 

“ Come on,” said Elgin, “ let’s move on down to the 
schoolhouse. ” Side by side the three passed on up the hill 
and down into the valley. 

The schoolhouse stood with a wide sloping green before 
it and a tangle of second growth forest behind it. It was 
not an old building, but had the appearance of senile old 
age. Its coat of cheap terra-cotta paint had cracked into 
many wrinkles; its windows looked dully out like the lus- 
treless eyes of an old, old man. The ante-room roof had 
been blown off by a winter’s gale and replaced inaccu- 
rately, so that it set awry, jaunty and defiant, challenging 
the world. Its door hung on one hinge, leaning sleepily 
against a knife-scarred wall. A rail fence ran about the 
yard which was filled to choking with a rank growth of 


THE DREAD DAY DAWNS 


183 


smart-weed. In one corner of the yard was a well with a 
faded blue pump holding the faded red arm of a handle 
toward the skies, as though evoking high heaven to bear 
witness that it was never intended to lead such a lonely 
and useless existence. 

The boys approached the building slowly and as they 
neared its sombre portals silence fell upon them. They 
opened the creaking gate and entered the building much 
after the manner of heroes who must stand blindfolded 
against a wall and wait the word “ Fire! ” They had to 
go through with it, that was all. 

The building held all the unmistakable odors of a school 
room. The smell of chalk dust, mouldy bread crusts, mice, 
dirty slates and musty books rose up to smite the arrivals. 
Four rows of pine seats, blackened with ink-daubs and 
deeply scarred by pocket-knives, ran the entire length of 
the building. A big box stove stood in the centre of the 
room, its wavering pipe supported by wires from the 
ceiling. 

Walter Watland looked about for a good place in which 
to conceal his package of sulphur and decided that in the 
empty stove he had discovered the place of all places. So, 
while Anson and Elgin were investigating the teacher’s 
desk and picking out their seats, he proceeded to hide his 
sulphur in the stove’s black depths. Then he went out- 
side with his companions to await the coming of the new 
teacher. 

Scarcely had the three seated themselves on the top rail 
of the yard fence than from all directions other pupils of 
the Settlement began to arrive. Sand Sharkers, sullen and 
defiant, holding themselves apart, came in one big group. 

Jim Scroggie entered the school yard with his sister by 
his side. He paused a moment to let his eyes stray to the 


184 


A SON OF COURAGE 


faces of the three hopefuls on the fence, conjecturing with 
a boy’s intuition that in this trio he saw some of the ring- 
leaders of the school. Jim wore a smart tweed coat and 
knickerbockers, and a shirt of grey flannel with a soft 
silk tie. His sister, Lou, was dressed daintily in white, 
with soft blue collar that matched the glorious depths of 
her eyes. She smiled now, and the three on the fence 
immediately underwent a change of heart. Elgin Scraff 
was the first to slide down and approach the new boy in 
a spirit of fellowship. 

“ Hello,” he said genially. “ I’ve got a crackin’ good 
seat. You kin set with me if you like.” 

Jim shook his head. “ Promised Billy Wilson I’d sit 
with him,” he said. “ Kin you tell me where he’s goin’ 
to sit? ” 

Elgin was about to answer when he caught a gasp from 
the watchers on the road. “ Teacher’s cornin’! ” went 
forth the cry. 

Down the hill came a thin, rangy bay horse, astride 
which, an open book in his hand, sat Mr. G. G. Johnston. 
As he drew up in front of the gate he closed the book and 
turned his frowning eyes on the building. Utterly ignor- 
ing the awed, watching faces he shook his head grimly 
and, looking to neither right nor left, rode in through 
the open gate. Not until he had unbridled his horse 
and turned him loose to seek a breakfast as best he knew 
how, while he investigated the school’s interior, did the 
boys and girls outside give way to their feelings. 

Then Maurice Keeler whistled. ‘ ‘ Whew ! Air> ’t he the 
old human icicle? ” he asked. 

“ You bet! ” came the spontaneous answer. 

“Gosh,” cried Elgin Scraff, “there goes the bell! 
Come on everybody; let’s get our medicine.” 


THE DREAD DAY DAWNS 


185 


Just as the boys and girls were settling down in their 
seats and Jim Scroggie was glancing anxiously doorward 
Billy strode in. He was resplendent in his Sunday best 
and wore a wild thorn blossom in his button hole. He 
glanced quickly about the room and caught the glint and 
sunlight for which he hungered — a smile from the lips 
of Lou Scroggie. Then he seized Jack LaRose by the 
scruff of the neck, jerked him from the seat near the door 
and motioned Jim Scroggie over. “ Well set here,” he 
whispered. “ It’s close to the outside in case we have to 
make a quick get-away.” 

The new teacher paid no attention to the little scrim- 
mage between LaRose and Billy. He stood on the plat- 
form, tall, spare, hard-featured and stern, and let his 
black eyes bore into the souls of the pupils, one after the 
other. Not until the silence of suspense was almost un- 
bearable did he speak; then clearing his throat he gave 
forth in stern tones the following edict: 

‘ ‘ Boys and girls, I am your teacher. I shall expect you 
to obey me implicitly. If you do not, I shall punish you. 
I am here to teach you; you are here to learn and profit 
from my teaching. I have heard bad reports of most of 
you, but for the present I shall refrain from mentioning 
any names. When in the school-room you will be allowed 
to address me as ‘ Sir. ’ Outside the school-room you will 
not address me in any manner whatsoever.” 

He paused to survey the rows of uplifted faces and let 
his words sink home. Then lifting a long hickory pointer 
from his desk, and holding it much as a conjuror might 
hold his wand, he gripped the edge of the desk with one 
bony hand and leaning forward, said: 

‘ 4 Boys and girls, from what has been told me I surmise 
that my predecessor has spoiled you. I do not censure him ; 


186 


A SON OF COURAGE 


undoubtedly he worked according to his lights. I have 
been twenty years a teacher. I am your superior in 
strength, wisdom and intellect ; and this I want you always 
to keep in mind. I shall tolerate neither familiarity nor 
disobedience. You will do well to obey me without ques- 
tion and do, worthily, the tasks I set for you. I believe in 
administering punishment to wrong-doers, severe punish- 
ment. It is not my purpose to deceive either you or the 
ratepayers of this school; therefore, I will admit that I 
like neither this district nor its people. That, however, 
will not prevent me from fulfilling my duty to the best of 
my ability.’ ’ 

He ceased speaking and drew himself up slowly, pursing 
his stem lips. “ That is all I have to say for the time 
being,” he said. “We shall endeavor to air this building, 
after which we will form classes. Will the fat boy with 
the rumpled hair and dirty neck, the one who is whispering 
to the boy behind him, be good enough to step forward? ” 

All eyes switched from the teacher to Fatty Watland. 
Fatty, his face very red, rose slowly and stood before the 
frowning Mr. Johnston. 

“ What is your name, boy? ” asked the teacher. 

“ Walter Watland.” 

“ Walter Watland — what? ” 

“ That’s all. Jest Walter Watland.” 

Mr. Johnston frowned darkly. “ Walter Watland — 
what ? ” he repeated. 

“ Sir” prompted a voice from the back seat. 

“ Walter Watland, sir” panted Fatty, glimpsing the 
light in the nick of time. 

“ Very well, Walter, you may go home and get a pail 
of water. My experience with school wells,” glancing out 
of the window to the blue pump, “ has been that during 


THE DREAD DAY DAWNS 


187 


the holidays they become a veritable death trap for frogs, 
mice and other vermin / 9 

Walter moved quickly to execute the order. Mr. Johns- 
ton addressed the rest of the pupils. “ School is now dis- 
missed until we raise the windows and air the room.” 


CHAPTER XVIII 


THE METTLE OF THE BREED 

Immediately thirty boys and girls leaped to their feet 
and windows went up with a bang. 

“ I think,” Mr. Johnson’s voice was heard above the din, 
“ it would be a good plan to start a fire in that big stove. 
This place is positively vault like with dampness.” 

A number of the boys ran out to gather kindling and 
wood and soon a fire was crackling in the stove. 

“ Pupils will now take their seats,” commanded the 
teacher, tinkling the bell on his desk. There was a hurried 
scramble as each boy and girl found his and her place. 

“We will now have — ” resumed the teacher, then 
paused to glare angrily at the stove. From every crack in 
its rusty sides was pouring forth a whitish-yellow smoke 
that gripped the throat and smelled like a breath from the 
very pit of darkness. Mr. Johnston attempted to proceed 
and failed dismally. He was choking, as was every boy 
and girl in the room. 

It was Billy Wilson who acted promptly. Running to 
the stove he opened the door and lifted out the blazing 
wood and, at the risk of scorching himself badly, ran with 
it from the room. 

It was nearly half an hour before Mr. Johnston sum- 
moned the boys and girls from the open windows to their 
seats. The room still smelled strongly of sulphur, but one 
might still breathe and live. 

In the interval of waiting for the air to clear the new 
teacher’s face had turned a ghastly white. His black eyes 

188 


THE METTLE OF THE BREED 


189 


blazed; his thin lips were drawn back from his strong, 
irregular teeth. Gazing upon him, the boys and girls 
quaked in apprehension. Their fears were well founded. 
Never before in all his long career in administering knowl- 
edge to grubby and inferior minds had Mr. G. G. Johnston 
been subject to such deadly insult as had been offered him 
here. It was fully a minute before he could command his 
voice sufficiently to speak and when he did the words 
trickled through his stiff lips thinly. 

“ Boys and girls,” he said at length, “ one or more of 
you have been guilty of the most unpardonable misde- 
meanor that has ever come under my observation as a 
teacher. I realize that the dirty trick has been deliberately 
planned, the motive being perhaps to test me. You may 
believe me when I inform you that the one who placed that 
sulphur in the stove will have plenty of reason to regret 
having done it. I intend to flog him — or her — until he — 
or she — cannot stand. I shall now ask the one who is 
guilty of the offense to stand up.” 

Nobody stood. Anson was on the point of jumping to 
his feet and telling who had brought the sulphur into the 
room but, on second thought, sat still. The teacher had 
asked who had put it in the stove. Certainly it had not 
been Fatty Watland, because he had gone on an errand 
for the teacher long before the fire was started. 

Mr. Johnston smiled darkly and nodded. ‘ ‘ As I thought. 
The one who did it is too much of a coward to confess it, ’ * 
he grated, his voice shaking. “Well, there remains but 
one thing to do. If the guilty party is to be punished, I 
must punish you one and all.” 

There was the sound of the quick intaking of breath, 
and an audible long-drawn “ Oh! ” from the girls. 

“ I must punish each and every one of you,” Mr. John- 


190 


A SON OF COURAGE 


ston reiterated, picking up the pointer. “ I shall begin 
on the boy who is smiling so defiantly in the back seat, if 
he will be good enough to step up here. ’ ’ 

“ I guess that’s me,” said Billy, jumping to his feet and 
starting for the platform. 

“ That’s a nice smile you wear,” said Mr. Johnston 
scathingly as he gazed down at Billy, his bony fingers caress- 
ing the long, supple pointer. 

“ Glad you like it,” said Billy. 

“Eh? What’s that? ” Mr. Johnston fairly recoiled in 
surprise and indignation at the affront to his dignity. 
“ Silence! boys and girls,” he shouted, as a titter ran 
through the schoolroom. 

“ Now young man,” he said grimly, grasping one of 
Billy’s hands and pulling it forward and out, “I’m going 
to drive that happy smile from your face.” 

“ You’re a’goin’ to find that some job,” said Billy 
quietly. 

“ Well, we’ll see, young Mr. Impudence.” The long 
pointer rose and fell. Billy caught the stroke full on his 
palm. His face whitened with pain, but the smile did not 
leave his lips. 

“ Your other hand,” commanded Mr. Johnston. 

He bent forward to grasp the hand which Billy raised 
slowly, thereby dodging a stone ink-bottle hurled by 
Maurice Keeler. At it was the bottle struck the blackboard 
and broke, deluging the teacher’s face with a sable spray. 

Billy turned quickly. “ No more of that,” he said. 
“ This is my funeral — and the teacher’s. Everybody else 
keep out of it.” 

He squared his shoulders and held out his hand. The 
pointer came down with all the strength that the man dared 
put behind it. Johnston peered closely into the boy’s face. 


THE METTLE OF THE BREED 


191 


It was white and quivering but it still wore a smile. 

“ Take your seat, ,, commanded the teacher. “ Next boy 
forward! ” One by one the boys walked up te receive 
their punishment. All took it bravely. 

When, at last, the boys had all been attended to, Mr. 
Johnston paused for rest. “ I shall now begin on the 
girls>” he said, “ but before administering punishment 
I am going to give the guilty boy, or girl, one more chance 
to confess. Will the one who put the sulphur in the stove 
stand up? ” 

As before, nobody moved. 

Mr. Johnston smiled. “ Very well. The girl with the 
handkerchief to her eyes, the one dressed in white and 
blue, five seats down, will come forward for punishment.” 

Billy felt his blood run cold. He could not believe his 
ears. The girl dressed in white and blue ! Why, that was 
she — his angel — his light — his everything. And she was 
crying now. She was standing up, moving forward. 

Like a flash Billy was on his feet. ‘ ‘ Stop ! ” he cried, 
his voice ringing out like a challenge. “ You don't whip 
her if I know it.” 

For the second time that morning Mr. Johnston received 
a violent shock to his dignity. Such rank insubordination 
he had never experienced before. The black eye* turned 
on Billy fairly darting sparks. “ Take your seat, you 
impudent boy! ” he thundered, “I see I have been too 
lenient with you. When I am through with the girls I 
shall flog you until you cry for mercy, and with you the 
boy who threw that bottle.” 

Billy was running up the aisle. 

“ Please sir, don't whip her,” he said, pleadingly. “ I'll 
own up. It was me that put the sulphur in the stove. ’ ' 

“ You? ” gasped Mr. Johnston. “ You coward! to let 


192 


A SON OF COURAGE 


your companions be punished for your despicable act. 
Oh/’ he exulted, removing his coat and rolling up his 
sleeves, “ won’t I make you pay for playing the sneak? ” 

Billy was giving no attention to the teacher. He was 
edging towards Lou Scroggie, who stood looking at him 
from dumb, pleading eyes. 

“ Go outside,” he whispered. “ Please do; I kin stand 
anythin ’, but I don ’t want you to see it . 9 9 

She turned slowly away, then came back and put her 
hands on his shoulders. She did not speak but the look 
she gave him was enough. His heart laughed. He turned 
toward the teacher with so glad a light in his grey eyes 
that the schooled moulder of young souls gazed back at 
him in bewilderment. 

Was this the brand of boy this Shagland Settlement 
bred, he wondered. If so, God help him and his precepts. 

From the bottom of his heart he wished that he had never 
seen the place, never encountered the spirit of its woods- 
born. He knew his capabilities and for once in his life, 
he confessed to himself, he had over-estimated them. He 
wanted to give this boy now standing so fearlessly before 
him a whipping such as he would remember to his dying 
day, but to save his life he couldn’t enter into the task 
with his old-time zest — not with those clear eyes looking 
so contemptuously into his very soul. 

The room had grown still — a graveyard hush, broken 
only by a sob from the tenderest-hearted of the girls, who 
knew that Billy had lied to save one of their sex. 

Johnston had turned to his desk and secured a shorter, 
stronger pointer. The veins between his shaggy eyebrows 
stood out clearly defined as he motioned Billy up on the 
platform. 

It was just at this juncture that Fatty Watland arrived} 


THE METTLE OF THE BREED 


193 


smiling and panting, with the pail, borrowed from his 
mother, full of drinking water. It took him but a moment 
to learn from one of the boys what had transpired. It 
took him still less time to reach the platform. There, with 
much humiliation of spirit and many “sirs,” he explained 
to the greatly surprised, and it must be confessed, secretly 
relieved Mr. Johnston, the true state of affairs. 

There was no doubt in the world that Fatty regretted 
the part he had so unwittingly played in the day's disaster. 
He was sufficiently apologetic and low spirited to satisfy 
even the new teacher, who was content to let him off with 
a lecture. 

Mr. Johnston then briefly stated to his pupils that a 
mistake had been made. He did not say that he was sorry. 
That would have been an untruth. He did say that Billy 
deserved another whipping for lying, but under the cir- 
cumstances he would excuse him, as he had already received 
unmerited punishment. 

At the close of his first day in the Valley School Mr. 
Johnston was forced to confess that he had considerable 
work before him. Had he been able to read the future and 
learn just what he would be obliged to undergo as teacher 
of that school, without doubt he would have climbed on 
the back of his thin horse and ridden straight away from 
Scotia Settlement, never to return. But he could not read 
what the future held, consequently he rode slowly towards 
Fairfield that first evening with the righteous feeling of 
one who had performed a difficult task well and satisfac- 
torily — *at least to himself. 

Back in the schoolyard a real old fashioned indignation 
meeting was being held by thirty lusty boys and girls. 
That any man, teacher or no teacher, should come into 
their beloved Settlement and announce that he had no use 


194 


A SON OF COURAGE 


for it or its people and go on his way unscathed was beyond 
all understanding. Something would have to be done about 
it; but what? It was Billy who climbed up on the school 
fence, called order and offered the one sure solution to the 
problem. 

“ I guess we don’t want ’a keep him, do we? ” he asked 
of his companions. 

* ‘ No. No ! ” came in chorus. 

‘ 1 All right ; that ’s settled. But listen, now, every one of 
you. He’s gotta go of his own accord. We’re not goin’ 
to be disobedient in any way. Fer a time we’ll eat out ’a 
his hand. Now wait — ” as a groan of protest went up — 
“ let me finish afore you get the high-jumps, you fellers. 
At the end of two er three weeks somethin’ is goin’ to 
happen to Mr. Johnston. I’m not goin’ to say what that 
somethin’ is right now, but you’ll all know soon enough. 
And if after it happens he’s got nerve enough to come back 
here I miss my guess, that’s all.” 

“ Hurrah! ” shouted the delighted boys. “ We knowed 
you’d find a way to fix him, Billy.” 

Billy climbed down from the fence and his supporters 
gathered about him, eager to secure the details of his plan 
but he shook his head. “ You kin jest leave it all to me, 
an’ one er two others I’m goin’ to pick to help me,” he 
said. “ It’s soon enough fer you to know how we do it 
when it’s done. Now, everybody go home.” 

Apparently quite by accident he found himself standing 
beside Lou Scroggie and the two fell into step together. 
They were the last to take the winding path toward the 
main road. An embarrassed silence fell between them, a 
silence which remained unbroken until they reached the 
creek bridge. Then the girl said shyly: “ Do you mind 
if I call you Billy? ” 


THE METTLE OF THE BREED 


195 


Billy had to stifle his emotion and swallow twice before 
he answered: “ That's what I’d like you to call me. I’ll 
bet you can’t say it, though.” 

“ Oh, I can so! ” 

“ Well, let’s hear you, then.” 

He bent his head and held his breath, oblivious to every- 
thing save the ecstasy of that moment. 

“ Billy,” she half- whispered, then hiding her flushed 
face in her hands she turned and ran from him. 

Billy did not follow. Something, perhaps the primitive 
man in him, cautioned the unwisdom of so doing. From 
the dim, far-back ages woman has run and man has pur- 
sued. But a few wise men have waited. 

So Billy watched her passing like a ray of soft light 
across the valley and around the golden curve of the road. 
Then with his arms on the bridge-rail, his eyes gazing deep 
into the amber depths of the water, he lived anew every 
moment of her nearness, until the hoarse, joyful cry of a 
crow broke in on his reverie. Croaker, having grown 
lonely, had come down to meet him. 

So with the bird perched on his shoulders, muttering a 
strange jargon of endearments and throaty chuckles in his 
ear, Billy turned up the path, thinking still of a pair of 
blue eyes and a voice that had called him “ Billy.” 


CHAPTER XIX 


CROAKER BRINGS A GIFT 

It was Sunday. Anson, with eyes close-shut and suds 
dripping from his freckled nose, was having his weekly 
ear and neck cleansing, his mother’s strong hands applying 
the coarse wash-cloth. Billy stood by, anticipating his 
turn, his eyes straying occasionally to the long “ muzzle- 
loader ” hanging on the deer-prong rack. Tomorrow the 
duck-season opened and he was wondering how he was 
going to contrive to sneak the old gun down and give it a 
thorough cleaning. Suddenly he became aware that opera- 
tions in the vicinity of the wash-basin had become sus- 
pended. He glanced across to find his mother’s gaze fixed 
sternly upon him. Anson was looking mightily pleased. 

“ I want ’a know how you got them ink blots on your good 
clothes. Have you been a’wearm’ ’em to school? ” asked 
Mrs. Wilson. 

So that was it? Anson had “ peached ”! Billy swal- 
lowed hard. His mind reviewed the days of the past two 
weeks. Again he saw a pair of blue eyes, misty with love 
and feeling ; heard a voice whose cadence was sweeter than 
honey saying, “ My! Billy, you are so different from any 
other boy I’ve ever met; and you always wear such nice 
clothes, too.” Oh those wonderful, joy-filled days! What 
boy would not have risked far more than he had risked to 
win such commendation from the girl of all girls. 

“ Well? ” His mother’s voice dispelled the vision. “ Are 
you goin’ to answer me, Willium? ” 

Billy squared his shoulders. Yes, he would do as she 
196 


CROAKER BRINGS A GIFT 


197 


would wish. He would confess. But the best of intentions 
go oft awry and Billy’s present ones were suddenly side- 
tracked by a giggle from Anson, a giggle freighted with 
malice, triumph and devilish joy at his predicament. 

Now, a boy may make up his mind to die a hero, but no 
boy cares to be ushered out by gibes and “ I-told-you-so’s.” 
Billy promptly adopted new tactics. “ This ain’t my suit, 
Ma,” he said. 

Mrs. Wilson started so at his words that she rammed 
the cake of soap into Anson’s mouth. 

“ Not yournl Then whose is it? ” she cried in amaze- 
ment. 

“ It’s Anse’s. We must have got ’em mixed when we 
was dressin’.” 

“ Willium, are you lyin’ to me? If you are it’s goin’ 
to be the costliest lie you ever told.” 

Billy returned her angry gaze without a flicker of an 
eyelid. The reproach in his grey eyes was enough to make 
any mother ashamed of having doubted, and, as a matter 
of natural consequence, anger her the more. “ How do 
you know that’s Anson’s suit? ” she shot at Billy, between 
rubs. “ How do you know it, you young imp, you? ” 

Billy moved forward, halting a safe distance from his 
mother. “ You’ll remember, Ma, that Anse’s pants has 
two hip pockets, an mine only one.” 

“ Yes, that’s so.” 

“An’ his coat has two inside pockets, an’ mine only 
one. ’ ’ 

“ I remember that, too. Well? ” ' 

Billy removed the coat he was wearing and passed it 
over to his mother. She turned it inside out, and inspected 
it closely. 

“ That’s Anson’s coat all right,” she affirmed. “ Now 


198 


A SON OF COURAGE 


twist about so’s I kin see them hip pockets in the pants.” 

Billy did so. Then, there being nothing more left to do, 
he stepped back to watch the fireworks. 

Stunned into inaction by the ease and suddenness with 
which Billy had turned the tables against him Anson had 
only time to take one longing glance toward the door. 
His mother had lifted the razor-strop from its nail and as 
he made a frenzied leap toward safety her strong hand 
gripped him by the wet hair. “ Swish ” fell the strop 
and Anson’s wail of woe rent the Sabbath air. In vain he 
squirmed, cried, protested his innocence. 

Having gotten nicely warmed up to her work Mrs. Wil- 
son turned a deaf ear to his wails. “ You would try to 
put off your dirty tricks on your brother, would you? ” 
Swish-swish. “ I’ll teach you to wear your good clothes 
to school. I’ll teach you to lie to me, you bad, deceitful, 
ungrateful boy, you ! 

“ Now,” she panted, having reached the limit of her 
strength, “ you go upstairs with Willium and change 
clothes. Not another word, er I’ll start in on you all over 
ag’in. Off you go, both o’ you. And Willium,” she called 
after them, “ when you get into your own suit, don’t 
you ferget to come here fer your scrubbin’.” 

When Billy reached the loft, Anson was standing in the 
center of the room, smashing with clenched fists at the 
empty air. Billy sat down on his bed and grinned. ‘ ‘ You 
will run straight into trouble, in spite of all I say, Anse,” 
he said gently. “ It’s all your own fault; you will be a 
tattle-tale. ’ ’ 

Anson turned on him. '‘You mean sneak! ” he gasped, 
“ you’ve been wearin’ my Sunday clothes ’stead of your 
own, an’ I didn’t know it.” 

Billy nodded. “You see, Anse, I knowed that sooner 


CROAKER BRINGS A GIFT 199 

or later yon was bound to tell Ma, so I played safe, that’s 
all.” 

Anson, still sniffling, finished his undressing. Billy 
nursed his knee in his hands and watched him. * * ’Course, ’ ’ 
he remarked, at length, “ you’ll be for tellin’ Ma soon’s 
she calms down a bit an’ is ready to listen, but Anse I 
wouldn’t do it if I was you.” 

“ Well, you kin bet I jest will do it,” promised Anson. 

Billy stood up. “ I’ll tell you what I’m willin’ to do, 
Anse,” he suggested. “ If you’ll keep mum about this 
thing, I’ll let you come duck-shootin’ with me an’ Maurice 
tomorrow. ’ ’ 

Anson shook his head. “ I don’t want ’a go duek-shoot- 
in’,” he said. “I know jest what you fellers ’ud do; 
you’d get me in all the bog-holes an’ make me carry your 
ducks. No sir, I’m goin’ to tell Ma.” 

Billy tried further inducements. “ I ’ll give you my new 
red tie an’ celluloid collar,” he offered. 

“No!” 

“ Then,” said Billy sorrowfully, turning toward the 
door, “ I guess there’s only one thing fer me to do.” 

“ An’ what’s that? ” asked Anse, apprehensively. 

“ Go an’ tell Croaker an’ Ringdo the whole business, an’ 
let that crow an’ swamp-coon ’tend to you.” 

“ Hold on, Bill, wait a minute,” Anson quavered. 

“ I’ve changed my mind, I’ll take the tie an’ collar an’ 
call it square.” 

Billy turned and came back slowly to where he sat. 
“ Anse,” he said. “ I ain’t wantin’ to see you witch- 
chased, so I’ll jest give you the tie an’ collar an’ say not 
a word to Croaker er Ringdo; an’ if you’ll tell me some- 
thin’ I want ’a know I’ll let you sleep with my rabbit-foot 
charm undemeaih your piller.” 


200 


A SON OF COURAGE 


Anson almost sobbed bis relief. “ 111 do it,” he agreed. 
“ What is it you want ’a know, Bill? ” 

“ I want 'a know all you know about them men that are 
workin’ Hinter ’s borin’ outfit. Why ain’t they ever seen 
outside that tall fence Scroggie’s built ’round the derrick, 
an ’ why did he build that fence, anyways ? ’ 

Anson looked troubled. “ Supposin’ I don’t know — ” 
he began, but Billy shook his head. 

“ I happen to know you do know. ’Course you needn’t 
tell, if you don’t want to,” he said. ‘‘You kin keep what 
you know to yourself an’ take your chances with witches. 
I was jest givin’ you a last chance, that’s all.” 

He turned once more to the door but Anson jumped up 
and caught him by the arm. “ Bill,” he gasped. “ I 
don’t know why Hinter built that fence, cross my heart, I 
don’t. But I’ll tell you all I know about the men who ’re 
runnin’ the rig. I been workin’ fer the tool-dresser after 
school, fer a quarter a night. I’ve heard quite a lot o’ 
talk among them fellers. Blamed if I could make head er 
tail of most of it but they mentioned a feller by the name 
of Jacobs an’ they seem plumb scared to death of him. 
Funny, too, ’cause he’s never been ’round there a ’tall. 
Nobody ever comes there but Hinter.” 

“ How do you mean they seem scared of Jacobs? ” 

“ I kin tell by what they say. One night I heard the 
big feller, named Tom, say to Jack, the other man : ‘ If 
we don’t strike the stuff Jacobs is done fer, an’ both of us ’ll 
go with him.’ An’ the one named Jack he swore at him 
an’ says : ‘ Shut your trap, Tom. One of these days Jacobs 
is goin’ to hear you blattin’; then you re goin’ to take a 
trip sooner than you expected.’ ” 

Billy stood frowning. “ Say, maybe Jacobs is the feller 
that fires the boilers that runs the windlass,” he hazarded. 


CROAKER BRINGS A GIFT 


201 


“ Nope, that man’s name’s Sanderson. He don’t have 
anythin’ to do with the drillers. Nope, Bill, Jacobs hain’t 
never been seen, but I’m dead sure he’s the boss of the 
outfit.” 

“ All right, Anse. You kin learn a lot more by keepin’ 
your ears an ’ eyes open. Whatever you see an ’ hear, you ’re 
to tell me, see T ” 

Anson nodded. 

“ All hunky. Now, I'll jest peel off these duds, an’ 
get inter my own. Ma’ll be gettin’ uneasy.” 

But when Billy, dressed in his own suit, descended the 
stairs to peer cautiously out, it was to find the room 
deserted. Mrs. Wilson’s voice, high-pitched and excited, 
eame from the back yard. 

“ Willium! oh Willium! ” she was calling. 

With a bound he was outside and over beside her. She 
sat on the block beneath the hop-vine, her face in her apron. 
She was rocking to and fro and sobbing. 

“ Ma,” cried Billy, “ whatever is the matter? ” 

“ Oh Willium,” she cried, “ my heart is breakin’. Oh 
to think how I mis j edged him! ” 

Billy’s eyes opened wide. “ Misjedged him? ” he 
repeated. 

“ Oh the poor little dear! the poor little dear! ” she 
wailed. “ Me hatin’ him like I did, and him doin’ all he 
has fer me. Oh, Willium, I do feel so ’shamed, an’ mean; 
I do so!” 

Billy stared at his mother in amazement. “Jest what 
has Anse ever did fer you, Ma? ” he asked wonderingly. 

“ Anse! ” she snorted. “ Who’s talkin’ about Anse? 
It’s Croaker I mean. Look here what that darlin’ crow 
brought me jest a few minutes ago.” 

She opened her hand. In it lay a shining twenty-dollar 


202 


A SON OF COURAGE 


gold piece. Billy’s mouth fell open in astonishment. 

“ Croaker brought you that? ” he gasped. 4 ‘Well, I’ll 
be shot ! ’ ’ Billy stood up and gazed about him. ‘ ‘ Where ’s 
Croaker now? ” he asked. 

“ I dunno. He jest laughed an’ sailed away ag’in. I 
don’t know where he got it but I do know good gold when 
I see it, Willium. Twenty dollars! Ain’t it splendid? ” 

“ It sure is, but I can’t help wonderin’ where Croaker 
found it. Maybe you wouldn’t mind lettin’ me off Sunday 
School today, Ma,” he suggested, “ so’s I kin trail off an’ 
find that Croaker. Any crow that kin pick up gold pieces 
that way is worth watchin ’. Kin I go look f er him, Ma ? ’ ’ 

Mrs. Wilson, at this particular moment, was in the mood 
to grant almost any request. “ Why Willium,” she said 
eagerly, “ go seek him and bring him back home. Never 
ag’in will I wish him dead, poor little feller. But,” she 
added as though realizing that her softened mood had 
carried her a little too far, ‘ ‘ you see you get back here in 
time fer supper er I’m liable to tan you good.” 

Billy waited for no more. He was up and away like a 
shot. Mrs. Wilson, clutching her gold piece in one hand 
and brushing back her deranged hair with the other, went 
back into the house. 

Anson, striving to keep his head above a shiny collar, 
about which was twisted a flaming red tie, was just issuing 
from the stairs. His mother opened her hand to display 
her gold piece, then closed it again. “ You go right back 
upstairs and take off Willium ’s collar and tie,” she com- 
manded. 

“ It’s my own collar an’ tie,” Anson declared, “ Bill 
give it to me.” 

“ Humph ! That’s jest like him, but why he should give 
you ms best tie and collar is beyond me. Do you think 


CROAKER BRINGS A GIFT 


203 


you deserve any gifts from your brother after what you 
done to him? It jest goes to show you what a real good 
heart that boy has. I declare, Anson, I do wish you was 
more like him. Now you get your hair combed and your hat 
brushed and get away to Sunday School.’ ’ 

44 Yes, Ma’am; ain’t you agoin’, Ma? ” 

4 4 I ’ll be long shortly ; don ’t you wait f er me. ’ ’ 

44 But where’s Bill? Ain’t he agoin? ” 

44 No, he ain’t agoin’; and now, not another of your fool 
questions. Slick your hair down and go at once. Do you 
hear me?” 

Anson proceeded to obey orders without another word. 
As he picked up his hat and turned to the door, Mrs. Wil- 
son opened her hand and held out the gold piece. 

44 Croaker found that and brought it to me,” she said, 
proudly. 

Anson’s jaw dropped and he backed fearfully away. 

44 Don’t you have nuthin’ to do with it, Ma! ” he cried. 
44 That Croaker’s a witch crow, that’s what he is! He’s 
tryin’ to tempt you with gold! ” 

Mrs. Wilson stood, the picture of amazement. 44 Have 
you gone stark and ravin’ crazy, Anson? ” she asked 
sternly. Then, anger mastering her, she reached for the 
broom standing in the corner. Anson promptly made his 
escape, but as he passed the open window, he gazed wildly 
in at his mother and cried again: 44 Don’t you have nuthin’ 
to do with that gold, Ma. If you do we’ll all get burnt up 
in our beds, er get clawed to tatters ! ” 

Mrs. Wilson sank down on a chair. 44 Willium’s right,” 
she sighed. 44 Anson’s mind is gettin’ a little unbalanced. 
I’ll have to put him on diet and feed him slippery-elm 
bark and alloways.” 

Sighing dolefully she arose, placed her treasured gold 


204 


A SON OF COURAGE 


piece in the clock for safe keeping, and tying on her bonnet, 
left the house. She walked hurriedly down the path, 
thinking that perhaps she might be late for the opening 
hymn. As she was about to open the gate, a slender, 
sprightly old gentleman, dressed in long frock coat, stepped 
out from the trees bordering the road, and gravely lifting 
his shiny hat, bowed low, and said: “ Your pardon, ma'am, 
I'm axin; but if yell permit me.” 

“ Harry O'Dule," she gasped, as he swung the gate 
wide, “ is it re'lly you? ” 

“ Faith and who else ma’am,” replied Harry. “ The 
ould burrud wid new feathers is ut. Faith ut's manny a 
year since I laid these duds carefully by, thinkin’ I'd be 
wearin' 'em niver ag'in until a day whin I'd not be 
knowin' ut. But, Mistress Wilson, ma'am, ut's other 
thoughts have been mine since I quit the dhrink. Pl'ase 
God but duty is iver clearer wid clearer understandin' and 
so ut is. Some day afore I die 1 11 glimpse me own skies 
and smell the burnin' peat, and if that is to be mine thin 
must I live me life clane here and do me duty like an Irish- 
man av birth. So, ma’am, it's off I am to visit the iioly 
Father at Palmyria. ’ ' 

Mrs. Wilson held out her hand. “ Harry O’Dule," she 
said, her voice unsteady, “ I always knowed you had the 
makin’e of a man in you. I'm gladder than I kin say." 

Harry bowed low. Mrs. Wilson passed through the gate, 
beaming commendation on him from misty eyes. He closed 
the gate slowly, his clean shaven, wrinkled face working. 
He stood and watched her until the bend in the road hid 
her. Then, placing his tall hat jauntily on his grizzled 
locks, he turned and walked smartly in the opposite 
direction. 


CHAPTER XX 


BILLY MEETS A LOVELY GHOST 

Billy found Croaker just where he thought he would be 
— clinging to the latch of the menagerie door and peering 
with one black eye through the chink above it at the owls, 
the while he hurled guttural insults at them. 

“ Croaker/ ’ commanded his master, “ get away from 
there! ” ' 

Croaker balanced himself by flopping one short wing 
and laughed at the hisses of the angered owls. He hopped 
from his perch to the peak of the shanty as Billy reached 
for him and there he sat, demurely turning his head from 
one side to the other and muttering low in his throat. 

“ Croaker, come down here, I want ’a ask you some- 
thin Billy’s hand went into his pocket and the crow- 
stood at attention. Then as the hand came away empty 
he emitted an angry croak and wobbled further along the 
ridge-board. 

“ Come, nice old Croaker, tell me where you found the 
gold,” coaxed Billy. 

Croaker turned his back and murmured a whole string 
of “ eoro-corrs,” which to Billy meant just as plain as 
words could say it that he hadn’t the slightest intention of 
telling anything. 

“ All right then, Croaker, I’ll call Ringdo, an’ feed him 
your dinner.” 

Now, for the swamp-coon, Croaker had all the jealousy 
and hatred a crow is capable of feeling and as a last 
resort, whenever he was obdurate and disobedient as he 

205 


206 


A SON OF COURAGE 


was now, his master could nearly always bring him to sub- 
mission by the mere mention of Ringdo ’s name. At Billy ’s 
threat Croaker raised his head and poured forth such a 
jargon of heart-broken lamentation that the listening owls 
inside crouched low in terror, their amber eyes questioning 
the meaning of the awful sound. 

Billy bent and patted an imaginary something on the 
ground. ‘ ‘ Good ol * Ringdo, ’ ’ he said. * * Nice ol ’ Ringdo. ’ ’ 
That was the last straw. With a croak of anguish Croaker 
swooped down and lit on his master’s shoulder. Promptly 
five fingers gripped his feet. 

“ Now, you black beggar, I’ve got you,” exulted Billy. 
This fact did not seem to worry Croaker in the least. His 
beady eyes were busy searching for signs of his enemy. 
Ringdo being nowhere visible, his neck feathers gradually 
lowered and his heavy beak closed. He snuggled close 
against Billy’s face and told him in throaty murmurs how 
much he loved him. Billy laughed, and seating himself on 
a log, placed the crow on his knees. 

“ Croaker,” he addressed the bird, “ you must ’a found 
ol’ Scroggie’s gold. He had the only gold money this 
country ever saw, so you must have found it some way. 
I don’t s’pose it’ll do Teacher Stanhope any good, ’cause 
it’ll go to Jim Scroggie’s father, but, Croaker, it’s up to 
us to get that money an’ turn it over; hear me?” 

Croaker blinked and seemed to be thinking hard. 

“ You see,” Billy went on, “ maybe the will ’ll be where 
the gold is. You be a real good feller an’ show me where 
you found the gold-piece.” 

“ Sure I will,” agreed Croaker. He hopped down and 
started pigeon-toeing across the glade, peering back to 
see if Billy were coming. 

Billy followed slowly, hoping, fearing, trusting that 


BILLY MEETS A LOVELY GHOST 


207 


Croaker’s intentions were of the best. The crow was carry- 
ing on a murmured conversation with himself, flapping 
his wings, nodding his head sagely and in other ways 
manifesting his eagerness to accommodate his master. 
When he grew tired of walking he flew and Billy had to 
run to keep him in sight. Straight through the grove, 
across the green valley and on through the stumpy fallow 
went the crow, Billy panting and perspiring behind. 
Straight on to the pine-hedged creek and still on, until the 
lonely pine grove of the haunted house came into view. 

“ Oh, Jerusalem! ” gasped Billy, “ An 7 me without my 
rabbit foot charm.’ ’ He realized where Croaker was lead- 
ing him — straight to the haunted house. He wiped his 
streaming face on his sleeve and determined he’d go 
through with it. 

Croaker paused for a moment in the edge of the grove 
to look back at Billy. The bird was plainly excited; his 
wings were spread, his neck feathers erect, and his raucous 
voice was scattering nesting birds from the evergreens in 
flocks. 

With wildly beating heart Billy passed through the pines, 
the twilight gloom adding to his feeling of awe. Croaker 
had become strangely silent and now flitted before him 
like a black spirit of a crow. It was almost a relief when 
at last the tumble-down shack grew up in its tangle of 
vines and weeds. Once more into the daylight and Croaker 
took up the interrupted thread of his conversation with 
himself. He ducked and side-stepped and gave voice to 
expressions which Billy had never heard him use before. 

“ I wish he’d shut up,” he murmured to himself, “ but 
I’m scared to make him, fer fear he’ll get sulky an’ quit 
cold on the job.” 

Croaker, mincing in and out among the rag-weeds, led 


208 


A SON OF COURAGE 


straight across the yard to a tiny ramshackle building 
which at one time might have been a root-house. Billy, 
feeling that at any moment an icy hand might reach out 
and grip his windpipe, followed. It was a terrible risk 
he was running but the prize was worth it. His feet 
seemed weighted with lead. At last he reached the root- 
house and leaned against it, dizzy and panting. Then he 
looked about for Croaker. The crow had vanished! 

A thrill of alarm gripped Billy's heart-strings. Where 
had Croaker disappeared to? What if old Scroggie’s ghost 
had grabbed him and cast over him the cloak of invisi- 
bility ? Then in all likelihood he would be the next to feel 
that damp, clutching shroud. 

Suddenly his fears vanished. Croaker's voice, high- 
pitched and jubilant, had summoned him from somewhere 
on the other side of the building. As quickly as the weeds 
and his lagging feet would permit Billy joined him. 
Croaker was standing erect on a pile of old bottles, basking 
in the radiance of the eolored lights which the sun drew 
from them. Undoubtedly in his black heart he felt that 
his master would glory in this glittering pile even as he 
gloried in it ; for was there not in this heap of dazzling old 
bottles light enough to make the whole world glad ? 

But Billy gazed dully at the treasure with sinking heart 
and murmured: “ You danged old humbug, you! " 
Croaker was surprised, indignant, hurt. He reached down 
and struck one of the shiniest of the bottles with his beak 
but even the happy tinkle that ensued failed to rouse 
enthusiasm in his master. 

“ 0 Croaker," groaned Billy, “ why won’t you find the 
gold fer me? " Croaker returned his master's look of 
reproach with beady, insolent eyes. “ Cawrara-cawrara- 
cawrara," he murmured, backing from the pile, which 


BILLY MEETS A LOVELY GHOST 


209 


meant, “ Why don’t you carry one of these beautiful 
shiny things home for me ? Isn ’t that what I brought you 
here to do? ” 

Then, his master still remaining blind to the wealth of 
treasure disclosed to him, Croaker spread his wings and 
sailed away over the pine-tops. Billy, despair in his heart, 
followed. All fear of the supernatural was gone from him 
now, crowded out by bitter disappointment at his failure 
to find the hidden gold. He passed close beside the haunted 
house without so much as a thought of the ghost of the 
man who had owned it and on through the silent pines 
and shadowy, grave-yard silence. 

Then, just as he drew near to the edge of the grove, 
he caught his breath in terror and the cold sweat leaped 
out on his fear-blanched face. Drifting directly toward 
him white as driven snow, came the ghost. It was bearing 
straight down upon him! His knees grew weak, refused 
to hold him, and he sagged weakly against a tree. He 
closed his eyes and waited for the end. 

Billy had heard that when one comes face to face with 
death the misdeeds of the life about to go out crowd into 
one brief second of darting reality before one. He had 
never quite believed it but he believed it now. If only he 
might have his misspent life to live over again! Never 
again would he steal Deacon Ringold’s melons or swap 
broken-backed, broken-bladed jack-knives for good ones 
with the Sand-sharks, nor frighten his brother Anson with 
tales of witches and goblins. But that chance was not for 
him. It was, perhaps, natural that his last earthly thought 
would be of her . Her sweet face shone through the choking 
mists — her trembling lips were murmuring a last “ good 
bye.” Did she know what a wonderful influence her 
entrance into his heart had exerted toward his reform ? 


210 


A SON OF COURAGE 


With an effort he opened his eyes. The white, gliding 
thing was almost upon him now. He tried to shake off 
frozen terror and run. He could not move a muscle. He 
groaned and shut his eyes tight, waiting for the icy touch 
of a spirit-hand. It found him after what seemed an 
eternity of waiting — but it was very soft and warm 
instead of clammy and cold and the voice which spoke his 
name was not in the least sepulchral. 

“ Billy.” 

A long shiver ran through his tense frame. He opened 
his eyes slowly. She stood before him! Yes there was no 
doubt of it, she was there, blue eyes smiling into his, warm 
fingers sending a thrill through his numbed being. 

He tried to speak, tried to pronounce her name, but the 
effort was a failure. All he could do was to drink in her 
perfect loveliness. More than ever like an angel she looked, 
standing all in white in the blue-dark gloom of the grove, 
her hair glowing like a halo above the deep pools of her 
eyes. 

“ Billy,’ ’ she spoke again, “ are you sick? ” 

With a supreme effort of will he shook off his numbness 
and the red flush of shame wiped the pallor from his 
cheeks. What would she think of him if she knew? The 
very anguish of the thought spurred him to play the part 
of hypocrite. It was despicable, he knew, but what man 
has not had to play it, sooner or later, in the great game 
of love? 

“ Fell out o’ a tree,” he managed to say. “ Struck my 
head on a limb.” 

* * Oh ! ” she cried eommiseratingly . She came closer to 
him — so close that her very nearness made him dizzy with 
joy. With a tiny handkerchief she wiped the perspiration 
from his forehead. 


BILLY MEETS A LOVELY GHOST 


211 


“ Come ont into the light and let me see where you 
hurt yourself,” she said, oh so gently. 

“ I don’t think it left any mark,” Billy stammered. 
“ Anyways, I feel a whole lot better now. It was foolish 
for me to climb that tall tree. I didn’t have to do it.” 

“ Then why did you do it? ” They were out into the 
hardwoods by now, in a long valley strewn with a net-work 
of sunbeams and shadows and he saw a hint of reproach 
in her big eyes as she asked the question. His heart leaped 
with sheer joy. She might just as well have said, “You 
have no right to run risks, now that you have me to 
consider.” 

They sat down on a mossy log. Her fingers brushed 
back his hair as her eyes sought vainly for markB or 
bruises. 

“ I asked you why you climbed the tree, Billy? ” 

Billy’s mind worked with lightning speed. 

“ There was a little cedar bird’s nest in a tall pine,” 
he explained. “ I saw a crow black bird fly out of it, and 
knew she had laid her egg in that nest.” 

“ But why should she lay her egg in the cedar bird’s 
nest; hasn’t she a nest of her own? ” asked Lou. 

* * No, crow black birds are too lazy to build nests. They 
take the first nest comes handy.” 

She looked her wonder. “ But, Billy, you’d think they 
would want to enjoy building their own homes, wouldn’t 
you? ” 

Billy shook his head. “ The crow black bird don’t want 
to be bothered with hatchin’ an’ feedin’ her own young. 
That’s why she lays in other bird’s nests,” he explained. 
“ She jest Jays her egg an’ beats it out o’ there. The other 
poor little bird waits for her to go. Then she goes back 
to her nest, glad enough to find it hasn ’t been torn to bits. ’ ’ 


212 


A SON OF COURAGE 


1 1 And you mean to tell me that she hatches the egg laid 
by the mean, bad black bird, Billy? ” 

“ Yep, she does jest that. She don’t seem to know any 
better. Birds an ’ animals are queer that way. Why, even 
a weasel’ll nurse a baby rabbit along with her own kittens 
if its hungry.” 

The girl’s eyes grew wider and wider with wonderment. 
“ Isn’t it strange? ” she half whispered, “ and beautiful? ” 

“ It’s mighty queer,” Billy confessed. “ But you see, if 
that little bird was wise, she ’d scoop that crow black bird ’s 
egg out o’ her nest, instead of hatchin’ it.” 

“ Why? ” 

“ Because when the egg’s hatched, the little black bird 
is so much stronger an’ bigger than the cedar birdies he 
takes most of the feed the old birds bring in. He starves 
the other little birds an ’ crowds ’em clean out o ’ the nest. ’ ’ 

‘ * Then it was brave of you to risk climbing that tall tree 
to frighten that crow bird away,” declared Lou. The 
admiration and commendation in the blue eyes watching 
him was more than Billy could endure. 

“ Say ! ” he burst out. “ I lied to you, Lou, I didn’t fall 
out o’ no tree, I was jest scared plum stiff when you found 
me, that’s all.” 

He hung his head and braced himself to meet what was 
justly coming to him. She would despise him now, he 
knew. He felt a gentle touch on his arm, and raised his 
face slowly. The girl’s red lips were smiling. He could 
scarcely believe his eyes. 

“I’m glad you told me, Billy,” she said. “I — I hoped 
you might.” 

“ Then you knowed I was scared? ” he cried in wonder. 

She nodded. “ I suppose I should have called to you, 
but I had forgotten what I had heard about this grove 


BILLY MEETS A LOVELY GHOST 


213 


being haunted and that I was dressed all in white. But 
when I came to you and saw your face I knew that you 
were frightened. ’ ’ 

“ Frightened! Oh gollies, I was so scared that I chat- 
tered my teeth loose. But honest Injun, Lou, I don’t scare 
easy. I wouldn’t like you to think that I’m a scare-cat 
about real things. I’m jest scared of ghosts, that’s all.” 

Lou knit her brows in thought. “ No,” she disagreed, 
‘ * if you had been that frightened you would not have come 
to the grove at all.” 

Billy looked his relief. “ I don’t think I’m quite as 
bad as I used to be,” he said. “ Why say, there was a 
time when you couldn’t get me inside that grove. But 
lately I’ve been feelin’ different about it. I don’t s’pose 
there re’lly is such a thing as a ghost, is there? ” 

“ No,” she replied, “ there’s no such thing as a ghost, 
Billy.” 

A red squirrel came scampering across the open sod 
before them, pausing as he sensed their presence, then 
springing to the trunk of a sapling the better to look them 
over. 

“ Oh look at the dear little thing,” cried the girl. 
“ What do you suppose he’s saying? ” as the squirrel 
broke into a shrill chatter. 

“ Why he’s callin’ us all the mean things he knows, I 
guess,” laughed Billy. “ We’re in his way, you see.” 

“ Then let’s get out of his way. I suppose he thinks 
we have no business here and maybe he’s right. Where 
shall we go, Billy? ” 

Billy thought a moment. “ Say, how’d you like to go 
out in my punt, on Levee Crick? I kin show you some 
cute baby mushrats an’ some dandy black-birds’ nests. It’s 
not far away. We go ’cross that big fallow and through a 


214 


A SON OF COURAGE 


strip o’ hardwoods an’ then we climb a stump fence — an’ 
there’s the crick. It’s an awful fine crick, an’ plumb full 
of bass an’ pike. Say, will you go? ” 

He leaned toward her, waiting for her answer. His 
heart was singing with joy — joy that spilled out of his 
grey eyes and made his lips smile in spite of him. What 
a sweet and grand privilege it would be to earry this 
wonderful girl, who had so transformed his world, along 
the familiar by-ways that held such rare treasures of plant 
and wild life. 

She was looking away across the forest to a strip of 
fleeey eloud drifting across the deep azure of the sky. 

“ I should like to go,” she said at length, “ if you are 
sure you don’t think I will be a bother.” 

‘ 1 Bother ! ’ ’ Billy ’s pulses were leaping, his soul singing. 
He reached down a hand and trustingly she put her’s 
in it. Very soft and cool it felt to Billy’s hot palm, as 
he assisted her from the log. Then side by side they passed 
down through the loug green valley. 


CHAPTER XXI 


A DAY WITH THE DUCKS 

Erie Landon faced her father across the breakfast table, 
dimpled chin cupped in her brown hand. It was early 
morning; a red sun was just lifting above the Point to 
wipe away the white mists of the channel and the bay. 
The American yacht which had put into harbor the night 
before had cleared and was now but a white speck in the 
distance. 

‘ ‘ She ought to make Cleveland before dark if this breeze 
holds,’ * the light-house keeper said as he twisted the big 
cigar which the commodore had given him about in his 
fingers. 44 Just what word was it that lawyer chap, Maddoe, 
wanted us to get to Swanson, at the foot, Erie? ” 

‘ ‘ Why, he asked us to tell Swanson that he and a 
friend are coming to his place to stay for a couple of 
weeks duck-shooting, Daddy,” Erie answered. 

44 When? ” 

44 Early in October, Mr. Maddoe said.” 

4 4 Humph ! It does beat all what foolish ideas them big 
guns take. Think of them two comm’ all the way from 
Cleveland here just to shoot ducks. Old man Swanson 
knows his book, too. He charges them sports awful prices ; 
nine dollars a week each and makes ’em sleep two in a 
bed at that; and every fall that old ramblin’ house of his 
is chuck kerbang full of shooters.” 

Landon was much improved in health. He spoke with 
little effort, the hollows in his cheeks were filling and his 
eyes were brighter than the girl had seen them for many 

215 


216 


A SON OP COURAGE 


a day. He gazed longingly down at the cigar, then glancing 
up to catch his daughter’s reproachful look, sighed and 
laid it on the table. 

“I’d love to smoke it,” he confessed, “ but you needn’t 
worry, Chick. I’m through with tobacco till I’m my real 
self ag’in. But I feel so darned much better since I quit 
smokin’ I simply want to smoke all the more.” 

“ Poor old Daddy,” Erie laughed, coming around to sit 
on the arm of his chair. ‘ ‘ It does seem too bad you can ’t 
have your smoke. I ’m sure you miss it dreadfully ; but you 
see you are so much stronger and better I — well, I simply 
won’t let you smoke just yet, that’s all.” 

His face had brightened at the sound of her laughter. 
Now he patted her hand, as his eyes sought the window. 
Perhaps the old songs would come back even as the laughter 
had come and surprise him. Perhaps she was forgetting 
Stanhope. But no, much as he desired that this should be, 
he knew her too well for that. 

With his eyes on the white sail, now a tiny dot on 
the horizon, his mind went back to that scene of a month 
ago, when he had told her of Hinter’s proposal and of his 
consent to it. He would never quite forget the look that 
came into her face. 

“ I could never marry Hinter,” she had said. “ I love 
one man — and to him I shall be true, always.” 

“ But he is blind, child. He has given you up,” Landon 
had reasoned. And with her face aglow she had answered. 
“He is blind, but he can never give me up, because he 
loves me.” 

Reading in the dry, suffering eyes she had turned upon 
him a purpose stronger than life itself, what could he do 
but take her in his arms and ask her to forgive him for 
the old meddler he was? Perhaps he had erred in this. 


A DAY WITH THE DUCKS 217 

He did not want to think so. But she looked so much like 
her mother that morning it might be — 

“ Daddy.” 

He came out of his abstraction with a start and glanced 
at her, almost guiltily. '‘Yes, Chick.” 

“ Have you told Mr. Hinter yet? ” she asked suddenly. 

“ Yes,” he answered. “ I told him that same day. Told 
him that you said you could never be more to him than 
what you now are. Why do you ask, Erie? ” 

“ I have wondered why he keeps coming here,” she said 
slowly. “ You scarcely need his companionship, now you 
are busy with your duties. But there, ’ ' she broke off with 
a smile, “ I have no right to doubt his sincerity; I am 
sure he has never spoken one word to me that he should 
hot speak and I know he is really fond of you.” 

Landon knit his shaggy brows. “ I don't know, Chick. 
I'm afraid he still hopes. He has as much as told me so. 

‘ We’ve been too hasty with her,' he said, ‘ we must have 
patience.' ” 

Erie's face went very white. “ He mustn’t come here 
any more,” she said quickly. “ With your permission I 
shall tell him so, Daddy.” 

He was silent for a time. “ Just as you like,” he said 
at length. “If his cornin’ annoys you, dear, you tell 
him so.” 

, She bent and kissed him. ‘ ‘ Best Daddy ever was, ’ ' she 
whispered. Then jumping up she ran to the stove and 
put the kettle on. 

“ I saw Billy Wilson yesterday when I was out sailing,” 
she called, “ and he had the sweetest little girl with him. 
Her name is Lou Scroggie and I fell in love with her on 
sight.” 

“ Billy with a girl! ” cried Landon in wonder. 


218 


A SON OF COURAGE 


“Yes. They were out in Billy’s punt, gathering water- 
lilies, and, oh Daddy, they seemed so happy. I eould have 
hugged them both. Billy told me that he and Maurice 
Keeler were going shooting ducks this morning and I asked 
him to come over here for breakfast as usual. The marsh 
shooting is all over by sunrise, you know. ’ ’ 

Her father nodded. “ I’ll bet a cookie that was Billy’s 
old muzzle loader I heard down in the duck-ponds about 
daylight,” he laughed. “ Maybe,” he added hopefully, 
“ h<i’ll fetch us a brace of ducks.” 

“ Why, there he is now,” she cried, glancing through 
the window. “ Maurice isn’t with him, though. I know 
that old punt as far as I can see it. I must get the potatoes 
and bacon on ; he 11 be hungry as a bear. ’ ’ 

Landon put on his hat and went down to the beach to 
welcome their visitor. “ Well, Billy,” he called as the 
punt appeared around the bend in the shore, “ how many 
ducks did old Liza- Ann drop out of the sky this moroin ’ ? ” 

“ Two greys and a mallard,” Billy answered over his 
shoulder. ‘ ‘ Could ’a killed more, but what ’s the use. They 
wouldn’t keep; weather’s too warm.” 

“Well now, I can’t see why a dozen wouldn’t keep as 
well as three,” returned the keeper, as he pulled the punt 
high on shore. 

“ They would, I s’pose,” laughed Billy as he stepped 
out, followed by Moll, the little spaniel, “ hut these three 
don’t have to keep long; you see we’re goin’ to have 
these fer dinner.” 

* 1 Are we now ? ’ ’ Landon rubbed his hands and smacked 
his lips in anticipation. “ You’re goin’ to stay and help 
clean up on ’em, Billy? ” 

“ Yep, I’ll stay. I’m goin’ to paint Erie’s skiff fer her. 
I’ll slip into the ponds ag’in on my way to the Settlement 


A DAY WITH THE DUCKS 


219 


an’ kill enough ducks fer our folks an’ the neighbors.” 

Erie was waving to him from the kitchen door. ‘ ‘ Where ’s 
Maurice 1 ’ ’ she called. 

“ His Ma wouldn’t let him come. Afraid he’d get wet 
an’ go sick ag’in. Gee ! that coffee smells good, Erie.” 

“ Go ’long in and tackle it while it’s hot,” advised Lan- 
don. ‘ ‘ I ’ll start in on pluckin ’ these birds. But first we ’ll 
have to let Chick see ’em. Say, Billy, they’re nigh as big 
as tame ’uns! ” 

Erie clasped her hands in ecstasy at sight of the wild 
ducks. “ Oh, aren’t they lovely! ” she cried. “ Put them 
in the ice-house, Daddy, until Billy starts for home.” 

Billy, who had squared away at his breakfast, spoke with 
his mouth full. “ We’re goin’ to have ’em fer dinner,” 
he informed his hostess. 

“ But, Billy,” she remonstrated, “ they 11 be expecting 
you to bring some ducks home, you know.” 

“ Billy says he’ll shoot some more this evenin’,” spoke 
up her father, who did not intend to allow anything to 
interfere with a duck dinner if he could help it. 

‘ ‘ These ducks wouldn ’t keep till I get home, ’ ’ said Billy. 

“ No,” supported Landon, “ weather’s too warm, you 
see, Chick. I’ll start in on dressin’ ’em right now,” he 
chuckled, exchanging winks with Billy. 

“ You’re a pair of plotters,” cried Erie, “ and being a 
weak, helpless girl I suppose I’ll have to agree with you 
and submissively roast those birds to suit your taste. ’ ’ 

“ You’ll find onions and savory hangin’ to the rafters 
upstairs,” suggested her father as he carried the ducks 
outside. 

Erie sat down opposite to Billy, and watched him while 
he ate. He smiled across at her. “ Your Dad seems a 
whole lot better,” he said. 


220 


A SON OF COURAGE 


“ Yes, ever so much. He’s almost his old self again. He 
has quit smoking, you see, and he has promised me not to 
smoke until he is quite well again. ’ ’ 

Billy laid down his knife and fork and smiled rem- 
iniscently. 4 4 I was jest thinkin’ of ol’ Harry O’Dule,” 
he said, answering the question in her eyes. “ He’s quit 
a bad habit, too. He’s quit drinkin’; don’t touch a drop 
any more — hasn’t fer over a month now.” 

“ Oh isn’t that splendid,” cried the girl. “ He’s such 
a dear old fellow when he’s sober. Do you suppose he’ll 
be strong enough to give up drink altogether, Billy ? ’ ’ 

“ Well, he seems to be in earnest about it. I roily don’t 
think he’ll drink any more. He says that he’s got his tin 
whistle an’ his cat an’ don’t need whisky. He’s changed 
wonderful, there’s no mistake about that. Ma saw him 
yesterday. He was dressed in his Prince Albert an’ plug 
hat, an’ Ma says he was that changed she didn’t know him 
at first.” 

Erie laughed softly, “ I know very well you’ve had a 
hand in his reform, Billy,” she said. 

“ Nope,” denied Billy, “ but I ain’t sayin’ but that my 
owls an’ snakes might have played a part in it.” And he 
proceeded to relate the deception he had practiced on Harry 
while the old man was in his cups. 

The girl clapped her hands in joy at the story. “ And 
you let him think he had the delirium tremens ! Oh, Billy, 
is there anything you wouldn’t do, I wonder? ” 

Billy shook his head. * ‘ I dunno, ” he replied. “That’s 
a hard question to answer.” 

Silence fell between them. He knew that she was think- 
ing that last year on the opening morning of the duck sea- 
son Frank Stanhope had sat at this table with him. She 
was gazing from the window, far down to where the Point 


A DAY WITH THE DUCKS 


221 


was lost in the Settlement forests. He saw her bosom rise 
and fall, saw a tear grow up in her eyes and roll unheeded 
down her cheek. 

In boyish sympathy his hand reached out to clasp the 
slender brown one clenched upon the white cloth. He 
longed to ask her if what the Settlement was saying — that 
she was going to marry Hinter — was true. And then as 
quickly as the thought itself came shame of it. His hand 
clasped her hand more tightly. 

“ He went with me to the foot of the Causeway last 
night, ag’in,” he said softly. 

She turned and the blood mounted swiftly to her white 
cheeks. “ And did he feel the light again, Billy? ” she 
whispered eagerly. 

“ He felt the light/’ said the boy, “ an’ he sang all the 
way back home.” 

“ Oh! ” she cried and hid her face on her arms. 

Billy arose hastily, saying something about helping her 
father with the ducks and went outside. He found Lan- 
don seated on a soap-box behind the boat house, indus- 
triously stripping the ducks of their feathers. 

“ Say,” said the man as Billy came up, “you know 
when ducks put on an extra coverin’ of feathers a hard 
winter is in sight? Well, by gosh, these birds have all put 
on an extra undershirt. Look,” holding the duck in his 
hands up for inspection. “ How’s that for a coat o’ 
down? ” 

‘ ‘ It sure is heavy, * ’ agreed Billy. ‘ ‘ I saw another sure 
sign over there in the ponds that says it’s goin’ to be 
a hard winter, one I’ve never knowed to fail. It was the 
mushrat houses. The rats are throwin’ ’em up mighty big 
an’ thick.” 

“ And warm, I’ll bet.” 


222 


A SON OF COURAGE 


“ Yep, an’ warm. We’re sure to have a rough fall an’ 
a humdinger of a winter. ’ ’ 

“ And I s’pose a rough fall means good duckin’? ” 
laughed Landon. ‘ ‘ Oh, by the way, Billy, before I forget. 
Would you mind runnin’ in to old Swanson’s landin’ on 
your way home and tellin’ him that a couple of fellers 
from Cleveland are cornin’ to his place early next month 
to shoot. They were here last night. One of em’s a lawyer 
named Maddoc an’ he give me this money to pass on to 
Swanson, so’s the old codger would be sure and hold a 
room for ’em.” 

He felt in his vest pocket and fished out a ten dollar note, 
which he handed to Billy. ‘ ‘ Maddoc and a party of other 
men were cruisin’ in a yacht. They docked here last 
night, ’ ’ he explained. ‘ ‘ Left at sunup for Cleveland. ’ ’ . 

“ I saw the yacht leave the pier,” said Billy. “ She sure 
was a dandy, wasn ’t she ? ’ ’ 

“Never saw finer lines than her’s,” agreed Landon. 
“ You’re sure you don’t mind gettin’ that word to Swanson 
now, Billy? ” 

“ Not a bit. I’ll run in to his dock tonight, an’ tell 
him. ’ ’ 

“ Good. There, thank goodness this job of pluckin’s 
done at last.” Landon rose, rubbed his cramped legs and 
gathered the stripped ducks up by the necks. “ We’ll 
leave the rest to Erie,” he chuckled. “ This is about as 
far as she ever lets me go. Comin ’ in ? ” 

Billy shook his head. “I’ve got a skiff to paint ’fore 
three o’clock this afternoon,” he said, “ so I best get busy. 
Tell Erie not to ferget to blow the fog-horn when the ducks 
are done.” 

Landon went on slowly to the kitchen. With his hand 
on the door-latch he paused and a smile lit his seamed face. 


A DAY WITH THE DUCKS 228 

Above the clatter of dishes came a girl ’s sweet soprano : 

“Her voice was low and sweet. 

And she’s all the world to me, 

And for bonnie Annie Laurie 
I’d lay me down and dee.” 

“ I knowed it,” whispered the man, softly. “ I knowed 
the old songs would come back ag’in. Billy must have had 
somethin’ to do with it; I’ll bet a cookie he had! ” He 
opened thfe door gently and entered. He placed the ducks 
on the table and softly withdrew again. 

***** 

It was late afternoon when Billy stepped into his punt 
and with swift, strong strokes sent it skimming toward 
the duck-ponds. At the point where the shore curved 
abruptly he lifted his hat and waved to the man and girl 
watching him from the pier. 

Moll looked up into his face and whined. “ Don’t worry, 
girlie,” Billy told her, “ we’re goin’ on, but we’re cornin’ 
back ag’in soon an’ have another o’ Erie’s duck dinners, 
an’ Teacher Stanhope’s goin to be with us, don’t you 
ferget that.” 

As he spoke, he saw another boat round the distant grass- 
point and put into Jerunda cut, the entrance to the main 
pond. The smile left his face. “ Beat us to it, Moll,” he 
sighed to the spaniel whose brown eyes had also glimpsed 
the skiff. 4 ‘ They’ll be set by the time we get in an’ they ’v© 
got the pick of the ponds, no use denyin’ that. We’ll have 
to portage ’cross to a back slough an’ all the ducks we’ll 
get a chance at are them they miss. Well, cheer up,” as 
the dog, sensing the disgust in his voice, growled deep in 
her throat. 


224 


A SON OF COURAGE 


Reaching the cut Billy found the other shooters having 
some difficulty in getting their heavy skiff through the 
shallow and deceptive water, a feat which only one who 
was used to navigating could hope to accomplish success- 
fully. At the same time he noted, with a start, that the 
men in the skiff were the mysterious drillers, Tom and 
Jack. 

“ Hello, you! ” he shouted. “ You’ll have to back up 
an’ take the run to your left.” 

The larger of the two men grunted a surly response and 
with much pushing and swearing they began to laboriously 
back out of the blind channel. Billy and Moll watched 
them, the dog growling her antagonism of the interlopers. 
As the skiff passed his bow Billy noted that the guns lying 
across the seat were both of the new breech-loading pattern. 

The occupants of the skiff cast a contemptuous look at 
his old muzzle-loader, as they passed, and one of them 
laughed and said something in an aside to his companion. 

“ Do you expect to kill any ducks with that old iron? ” 
he sneered, looking hard at Billy. 

Billy felt his cheeks turn hot. “I might,” he returned, 
“ an’ ag’in, I mightn’t.” 

“ That’s one on you, Tom,” laughed the man named 
Jack. “ Quit roasting the kid. We’d have been mired yet 
if it hadn’t been for him.” 

Tom allowed a shade of amiability to creep into his tones 
as he said: “ First time we ever shot these grounds, and 
we’re kinder green on the ins and outs of ’em. We’re 
drillin’ fer water down in the Settlement. Lost our drill 
this momin’ and had to send across the lake fer a fishin’ 
outfit, so thought we’d put in the time shootin’ a bit.” 

Billy made no reply. 

“ Neeborly, ain’t he? ” growled Tom to his companion. 


A DAY WITH THE DUCKS 


225 


“ Nice, friendly sorter youngsters they raise on this God 
forsaken spot, I say.” 

“ He thinks you’re guyin’ him,” said the other man. 
“ How’s he to know what you mean by ‘ fishin ’-outfit? ’ 
He likely thinks you mean a rod and reel. Better push 
along and mind your own business. Next thing you ’re goin ’ 
to say is somethin’ about ‘ shootin’ a well,’ and if Jacobs 
gets to hear of that kinder talk — ’ ’ 

They were moving off, and Billy did not hear the rest 
of the sentence. As they entered the main run, the smaller 
man called: “ Hey, sonny, whereabouts is the best point 
in yonder? ” 

Billy gritted his teeth. He resented these strangers com- 
ing into his shooting grounds and acting as though they 
owned them. For them to expect him to show them just 
where the best point was to be found seemed to him to be 
going a whole lot too far. He disliked and distrusted them. 
From what he had seen and heard of them he believed they 
were the men who robbed the Twin Oaks store. He wanted 
to tell them so now, but something told him to curb his 
temper and act the part of a sport who could afford to 
make certain allowances. 

“ The best point’s straight ahead of you,” he answered. 
“ You 11 find a rush blind already built on it.” 

He picked up his paddle and followed in the wake of 
the other boat. The men were putting out their decoys as 
Billy passed the point. 

“ Say, you,” called Tom, “ if this is such an all-fired 
good spot it’s a wonder you didn’t take it yourself; you 
had lots of time to beat us to it, didn’t you? ” 

“ You was in the run first, wasn’t you? ” said Billy, 
coldly. 

“ Why, sure we was, but we were stuck tight. You 


226 


A SON OF COURAGE 


might have passed ns, easy enough. ’ ’ 

“ Well, we don’t play the game that way in these parts,” 
said Billy and passed on, unheedful of the uncomplimentary 
names the chagrined driller threw after him. 

Half way down the long pond he drew into shore and, 
pulling the punt after him through the tall rushes, made 
the portage across to the inner slough. It was a long, hard 
pull, but the track he laid would make the return portage 
much easier. 

“ Looks like a good feedin’ place, Moll,” he addressed 
the spaniel as he paddled slowly across to the far shore 
of the slough. “ Good grass here fer hidin’, too; but not 
much chance of findin’ a down bird without a good dog, 
an’ I’ve got her — eh girlie? ” 

Moll wagged her short tail gleefully. 

“ Now then, girlie, it’s cornin’ on to flight-time, so we’ll 
jest set out decoys right here. ’ ’ Billy picked up the wooden 
ducks and placed them as naturally as he knew how some 
twenty yards out from shore. As he drew the punt well 
up among the tall rushes he saw the first line of ducks 
drift in from the bay. 

‘ * Down, Moll ! ” he whispered, as he cocked the old 
muzzle-loader. “ They’re headin’ straight in. Them driller 
fellers are goin’ to get a chance to make a clean-up on that 
bunch, sure ! ’ ’ 

Straight across the marsh, following the cut, the ducks 
came on, half a dozen big “ blacks,” with long necks out- 
stretched and quick eyes seeking for feeding ones of their 
own kind. Then, suddenly, the leader gave a soft quack 
and Billy saw the flock swoop low. 

“ Oh, gollies! Right into their decoys,” he groaned. 
“ Now they’ll give it to ’em, jest as they’re settlin’.” 

A long, harrowing moment passed. Then quickly and 


A DAY WITH THE DUCKS 


227 


close together four shots rang out. Moll whined dolefully 
and Billy, peering through the rushes, gave a low whistle 
of surprise. “ Didn’t down a single bird,” he muttered, 
“ an’ by gollies, they've sent ’em right across to us.” 

Almost simultaneously with his words the whistle of 
strong wings grew up and the six big blacks swept in, low 
over his decoys. 

It was a sure hand that raised the old gun, a sure eye 
that glanced along its brown barrels. At the first loud 
report of the black powder the leader of the flock crumpled 
up and the second in command drifted sidewise from the 
flock. The left barrel spoke and a third duck twisted from 
the remainder of the flock, to fall with a splash into the 
water. 

Moll, whose eyes had never left the second bird down, 
had slipped quietly away through the rushes. Billy, having 
launched the punt and retrieved the two birds on the water, 
found her waiting for him on shore, the dead duck in her 
mouth. He patted her brown side and spoke a word of 
commendation to her; then quickly he reloaded. 

The sun was almost on the western horizon now and the 
ducks were beginning to come in fast, most of them from 
off the bay; consequently the shooters in the front pond 
had always first chance. But Billy knew they were having 
little or no success. Every duck that offered itself as a 
target to them he saw almost as soon as they did and 
although the report of their guns sounded at quick intervals 
the ducks seemed to keep on, straight across to where he 
crouched with the excited dog by his side. 

By the time the sun had fallen behind the far rim of 
forest he was quite content with his evening’s bag, which 
consisted of five blacks, a pair of greys, two blue winged 
teal, a pintail and a pair of green headed mallards. 


228 


A SON OF COURAGE 


Quickly lie made the portage and crossed the pond into 
Jernnda. He could hear the other shooters ahead of him, 
speaking in profane tones of disgust at their luck. He 
found them waiting for him on the edge of the bay, but 
he kept right on paddling. 

“ What luck, sonny? ” called the man, Tom, as he 
passed. 

Billy told him of his bag. 

The man swore and said something to his companion. 
* ‘ Hey, hold up ! Want to sell part of them ducks ? ’ ’ he 
asked. 

“ Nope.” Billy shipped his paddle and picked up his 
oars. Somehow he felt safer then. He believed that men like 
those behind were capable of almost any crime. What if 
they should make up their minds to have his ducks any- 
way? Well, they couldn’t catch him now. There were 
two of them in a heavy skiff and he was alone in his light 
punt, so let them try it if they wanted to. But whatever 
might have been their thought, it was dear they knew 
better than pursue that swiftly moving boat. Quickly they 
fell behind him and were swallowed up in the deepening 
shadows. 


CHAPTER XXII 


TEACHER JOHNSTON RESIGNS 

September passed laden with summer perfumes and song 
and, beneath a blanket of hoar frost, October awoke to 
send her hazy heralds far across wooded upland and open. 
Slowly those wreathing mists kissed leaf and fern, as 
though whispering : ‘ ‘ Rest sweetly, until spring brings you 
back once again.’ * 

So it seemed to the boy, as from the brow of a hill he 
watched the dawn-haze drift toward the newly-open sun- 
gates of the eastern sky; for autumn always brought a 
feeling of sadness to Billy. He missed the twitter of the 
birds, the thousand and one notes of the wild things he 
loved and which always passed out and away from his 
world with the summer. The first hoar frost had come; 
soon the leaves would turn golden and crimson, the fern- 
clumps crumple and wither into sere, dead, scentless 
things. Then with shortening days and darkening skies 
those leaves and plants would sag to earth and the gaunt 
arms of the bare trees would lift empty nests toward snow- 
spitting skies. 

No more would the fire-flies weave a gauze of golden 
stars above the marshlands at the foot of the Causeway. 
The season of green and blue had lived and died and in 
its place had been born a season of drab and brown. 
Summer was gone. The song-birds had migrated. Soon 
the green rush fields would sway, grey and dead and the 
bronze woodcocks would whistle away from the bog-lands, 
for seldom did they tarry after the first frost. Along the 

229 


230 


A SON OF COURAGE 


creek the red-winged black-birds would be sounding their 
up-and-away notes. No happy carol to welcome the first 
glow of dawn! No wonder Billy sighed. Then he lifted 
his head quickly as, high above him, sounded the whistle 
of wings. Up from the north a wedgeshaped flock of wild 
ducks came speeding, white backs flashing as they pitched 
downward in unbroken formation towards the calling bay- 
waters. 

Billy caught his breath quickly and a glad smile drove 
the shadow from his face. “ Canvasbacks ! ” he murmured, 
“ They’ve come early. I bet anythin’ the flocks I heard 
cornin’ in through the night was canvasbacks, too — an’ 
redhead! I must go right over after breakfast an’ tell 
Teacher Stanhope; he’ll be sure to say ‘ Let’s go get ’em.’ 
Oh, gee! ” 

He turned back toward the house, then paused as the 
mellow “ whirt-o-whirt ” of a quail sounded from the 
sumach which bordered the meadow across the road. ‘ ‘ Old 
Cock quail,” he cautioned softly, “ I wouldn’t give that 
covey-call too often if I was you. Joe Scraff jest might 
hear you. Only note safe f er you to whistle is * Bob White ’ 
— but you won’t be whistlin’ that till spring comes ag’in.” 

It may be that the white-throated leader of the brown 
covey in the stubble sensed the murmured warning of his 
friend, for he did not whistle again. The smile still on 
his lips, Billy vaulted the rail fence and sought the path 
to the house. 

He found his father, mother and Anson seated at the 
breakfast table and as he took his place he was conscious 
of a foreboding of impending storm. The conviction was 
strengthened when his father’s foot, reaching sympathetic- 
ally underneath the table, touched his ever so gently. With 
perfect sangfroid he speared a strip of bacon with his fork 


TEACHER JOHNSTON RESIGNS 


231 


and held his breath as he waited for the worst. Two taps 
of that foot meant “ On yonr guard,” three taps “ Watch 
out for dodging.” 

He received tw T o taps and sighed relievedly; then as his 
mother arose to bring the coffee-pot from the stove he felt 
three quick and distinct pressures and ducked his head 
just in time to miss a swinging, open-handed slap from 
Mrs. Wilson’s heavy hand. 

Anson, sitting slit-eyed and gleeful close beside him, 
received the slap with a force that knocked his face into 
his porridge bowl. 

As Mrs. Wilson recovered her balance and squared away 
for a surer stroke, Croaker swooped in through the open 
door and, with many muffled croaks, alighted in the center 
of the table. In his black beak he held another glittering 
gold piece, which he dropped in front of Mrs. Wilson’s 
plate. Then picking up a fat doughnut from the platter 
he hopped to the motto God Bless Our Home and perching 
himself on its gilt frame proceeded to appease his morning’s 
hunger. 

Silence fell upon the family after the first gasp of sur- 
prise at sight of the gold piece. Even Anson checked his 
wailing to sit with his pale eyes wider open than ever they 
had been before and it was he who broke the silence which 
had fallen — broke it with a husky, fear-ridden voice as 
he cried: 

“ Fer goodness sake, Ma, don’t touch that gold! It’s 
bewitched, I tell you! ” 

His mother glared at him. “ Humph! ” she snorted, 
“ you’re bewitched yourself, you poor coward you! Now 
then, another word out o’ you — and you get the strap. 
Ain’t I told you, Anson, time and ag’in, that this dear 
crow has found old Scroggie’s pile? You git up from this 


232 


A SON OF COURAGE 


table to once ; go out and stay within callin ’ distance ; 1 11 
want you back here presently.” 

She picked up the gold piece and, fondling it lovingly, 
waited until Anson had passed outside. Then with char- 
acteristic deliberation she placed it safely away beneath 
her saucer, thereby signifying that the incident was closed 
for the time being. 

It was not until Billy had finished his breakfast and was 
about to slip quietly out that his mother spoke again. 
Then fixing him with cold, accusing eyes, she said: “ I 
want ’a know what you had to do with scarin ’ the new 
teacher so he won’t never come back to the Valley School 
ag’in, Willium.” 

Billy, who had anticipated what was coming, gave a well- 
feigned start. 

“ Why, Ma,” he cried, in amazement, “ you don't mean 
to say he ’s gone ? 9 ’ 

“ Yes, he’s gone an’ I s’pose you’re satisfied, you and 
your outlaw companions in crime. Cobin Keeler stopped 
by this momin’ and he told us the teacher left his writ’ 
resign in his hands. He declares he won’t risk his life 
among a lot of young savages. ’ ’ 

“ I think that Mr. Johnston went a little too far there,” 
Wilson ventured. 

“ You shet right up, Tom!” commanded his wife. 
“ Ain’t it nuthin’ to you that your son grows up wild and 
uneddicated? ” 

“ But he had no right to call us savages, Ma,” pro- 
tested Billy. 

“ Oh, hadn’t he then! Well, who up and deliberately 
stole his horse, I’d like to know? ” Mrs. Wilson held her 
breath waiting for the answer. 

“ Nobody stole his horse,” replied Billy. “ The poor 


TEACHER JOHNSTON RESIGNS 


233 


thing was so lean an’ hungry that it weaved when it walked ; 
all we did was sneak it out o’ the school-yard an’ hide it 
where there was good pasture/ * 

“ Well, maybe that ain’t stealin’ it, but if it ain’t what 
would you call it, Willium? ” 

“I’d call it bein’ kind to dumb animals,” spoke up Wil- 
son, his eyes meeting the angry ones of his wife. 

“ Listen, Ma,” said Billy gently. “ That old Johnston 
was awful mean to us kids, there’s no mistake about that. 
He whipped us fer nothin’, an’ what’s worse, he was 
always sneerin’ at us fer being low-born an’ ignorant, an’ 
that meant sayin’ things ag’in our folks. But we was 
willin’ to stand all that, cause we’d promised Teacher Stan- 
hope that we’d do our best to put up with the teacher in 
his place. But, Ma, if you could a’ seen that poor ol’ 
horse, so starved that every rib showed like the ridges in 
your wash-board, lookin’ over that school-yard fence at 
the long grass an’ beggin’ with his hungry eyes fer jest 
a bite — ” 

Billy paused and rolled a bread crumb. When he looked 
up his eyes were dark. “ Anse has told you that it was 
me who sneaked him out o’ the yard, an’ led him away 
where he could feed an’ rest an’ get the sores made by the 
hard saddle an’ hickory healed, an’ Anse didn’t lie fer 
once. I did do it, an’ I’d do it ag’in. 

“ What’s more, Ma, that ol’ horse is goin’ to stay right 
where he is, belly-deep in clover, till it gets so cold we’ll 
have to stable him. Then he’s goin’ to have all the good 
hay an’ oats he wants.” 

Mrs. Wilson could scarcely believe her ears. * 1 You don ’t 
mean that havin’ took him you had any thoughts of keepin’ 
him, Willium? ” she managed to say. 

“Yes, Ma’am; I mean jest that. You see, Ma, that ol’ 


234 A SON OF COURAGE 

horse don’t belong to Teacher Johnston any more. We 
bought him.” 

“ Bought him! ” exclaimed man and woman in a breath. 

Billy nodded. “ Me an’ Jim Scroggie bought him from 
Mr. Johnston, an’ we got a receipt provin’ our ownership, 
too, you bet. This is how we did it. ’Long ’bout the 
second er third day after ol’ Thomas disappeared me an ’ 
Jim met up with Johnston walkin’ home from school to 
Fairfield where he boards. Jim had fifty dollars, all his 
own, an’ we’d planned jest what we’d say to the teacher. 

“ First off when he sees us, he asks us if we’d happened 
to find any tracks of his horse. It was funny to see his 
snakey eyes callin’ us liars at every polite word we said to 
him. Finally he comes right out flat-footed an’ tells us 
that he knows we had somethin’ to do with ol’ Thomas 
wanderin’ off, an’ he says he’s goin’ to make our fathers 
pay fer his loss.” 

“ Course we got real scared then — leastwise Johnston 
thought we was — an’ Jim he ups an’ tells him that we 
f ergot to latch the gate an’ let the horse out. Then John- 
ston got real mean — meaner than I ever see him get, an’ 
that’s sayin’ quite a lot. He said he would turn back with 
us an’ interview — that’s the word he used, whatever it 
means — interview our fathers. 

“ Then Jim he begged him not to do that. 1 We’ll pay 
you whatever ’s right fer your horse, sir,’ he says, but 
Johnston jest snorted. ‘ Where would you get fifty dol- 
lars! ’ he says, but Jim, he nudged me to keep quiet, an’ 
said: ‘ I’ve got fifty dollars of my very own, right here, 
sir. We’ll buy your horse an’ take chances on findin’ 
him, if you’ll sell him to us.’ 

“ * Gimme the money,’ says Johnston. 

“ So we give him the money but we made him give us 


« 


TEACHER JOHNSTON RESIGNS 


235 


what Jim calls a regular bill o ’ sale receipt f er it. An ’ so, 
you see, Ma, we’ve got Mr. Johnston there, an’ he won’t 
ever lay the rod on poor ol’ Thomas no more.” 

Mrs. Wilson, arms folded on the white table-cloth, was 
gazing out of the window now. Perhaps she saw a poor 
old horse, belly deep in luscious grass, making up for the 
fasts of hard and stern days, mercifully behind it forever 
now and enjoying life to the full — the new life which 
Billy had helped to purchase. 

At any rate, her voice had lost much of its harshness as 
she asked: “ But what about the wild animal that broke 
into the school an’ tore the teacher’s clothes fair off his 
back an’ chased him up the road? That’s the thing that 
scared him so he quit the school ferever. Now, Willium, 
what did you have to do with that? ” 

Billy sat silent, striving to keep hack the grin that would 
come in spite of him. Wilson, ^>n pretext of getting his 
pipe, got up and left the room. 

“I’m waitin’, Willium.” 

“ Well, Ma, you see ol’ Ringdo got out of his cage 
yesterday mornin’. I’ve kept him shut up a lot an’ what 
with feedin’ on meat an’ rich stuff that old swamp coon 
was playfuller than usual, I guess. It seems Teacher 
Johnston had took a notion to get down to the school at 
eight o’clock instead of nine as he usually does. When 
Teacher Stanhope taught school Ringdo used t’ often go 
there an’ get apples an’ stuff that the teacher saved for 
him. Yesterday when he got loose he must’ve been lone- 
some fer Mr. Stanhope, an’ he went to the school. He got 
in an’ found Johnston alone, I guess, an’ maybe tried to 
get friendly. Mr. Johnston must have kicked him er hit 
him. All I know about it is what I seen fer myself. 

' “ \ was goin’ down the path to the road, Anse with me, 


236 


A SON OF COURAGE 


when the teacher went past, runnin , fer all he was worth. 
Come to think of it his coat had been clawed some, an’ I 
remember now his face was bleedin’ from a scratch er two. 
He didn’t see us an’ he didn’t stop. He kept right on 
goin’. Anse an’ me went on to the school, an’ there we 
found Ringdo jest finishin’ the teacher’s lunch. I brought 
him back an’ put him in his cage. That’s all, Ma, an’ it’s 
every blessed word true.” 

Mrs. Wilson remained thoughtful. Billy, watching her 
with furtive speculation, hoped from the relaxing lines in 
her brow that all was well with the world once more. Hope 
became an assurance with her next words. 

“ You kin have that Jim Scroggie over to supper tonight, 
Willium, if you want to.” 

Billy’s heart jumped with joy. He wanted to hug his 
mother, but restrained the desire and sat gazing pensively 
at his plate. 

“ What’s the matter, don’t you want him? ” asked his 
mother. “ I thought maybe you’d like to have him, seein’s 
you’re such cronies an’ there must be some good in him in 
spite of his looks. I could have them partridges that Joe 
Scraff sent over roasted with bacon strips across ’em, an’ 
baked potatoes, an’ maybe I might boil an apple dumplin’.” 

Billy sighed. * 1 That’s awful good of you, Ma, an’ I 
sure would like to have Jim over to supper, but he’s so 
fond of his sister he won’t go anywheres without her, you 
see.” 

“ Well,” flared his mother, “ can’t he fetch her along 
with him, if he wants to? What’s to hinder him from 
fetchin’ her? She’s a sweet little thing an’ I’d be proud 
to have her.” 

Billy closed his eyes and took tight hold of his chair seat. 
He knew that if he did not summon all his self restraint 


TEACHER JOHNSTON RESIGNS 


237 


he would surely spoil all he had accomplished through 
strategy. He longed to swoop down on his mother and 
hug her, slap her on the back and yell in her ear that she 
was a brick. But experience had taught him caution. And 
besides, Billy reasoned, there was still something more to 
be accomplished. 

“ I say we kin have Louie over, too, Willium,” Mrs. 
Wilson suggested once again. 

“ Yep, we could do that, I s’pose,” said Billy, “ only 
— ” He frowned and shook his head. “ I guess we best 
not ask either of ’em, Ma. Maurice might hear of it, an’ 
wonder why he wa’n’t asked too. He’s awful funny that 
way, you know.” 

“ Why, sakes alive! ” cried his mother, “ I never give 
Maurice a thought. O’ course we’ll have him, too. An’ 
if there happens to be anybody else you’d like, you best 
say so now, Willium.” 

“I’d awful like to have Harry O’Dule, too.” 

Mrs. Wilson caught her breath, but whatever objections 
her mind raised against the last named remained unuttered. 
All she said was. “ This is your party, Willium. Any- 
body else, now? ” 

“ Elgin Scraff,” spoke up Billy, promptly. 

Mrs. Wilson looked out of the window and considered. 
“ Let’s see. That leaves little Louie the only girl among 
all of you boys, so we’ll jest have to have another girl er 
two. How’d you like to have Ann Spencer and Phoebe 
Scraff? ” 

BiHy agreed with delight. 

Mrs. Wilson pushed back her chair and arose from the 
table. “ Now, then, Willium, you get along out. I’ve got 
a whole lot to do afore supper-time, and I guess maybe 
you best run across and ask Mrs. Keeler to come over and 


238 A SON OF COURAGE 

/ 

help me. You kin go ’round and give the invites to your 
friends.” 

She picked up the saucer and stood looking down at the 
gold piece which Croaker had brought in. “I don’t 
s’pose there’s a particle of use keep in’ an eye on that 
crow? ” she asked. 

“ Haven’t I been keepin’ an eye on him? ” cried Billy, 
“ an’ you see what he does. Jest as soon as I turn my 
back he plays sharp. I’ve done my best to get him to 
show me where he finds that gold, but he won’t do it. 
But I’ll catch him yet. I’ll jest run along an’ see what 
he’s at now; he’s so quiet I know he’s into some mischief.” 

He picked up his hat and bounded outside. He found 
Croaker seated on the chicken yard fence, gravely sur- 
veying his ancient and mortal enemy, the old game cock, 
and whispering guttural insults that fairly made the 
rooster bristle with anger. 

Billy shook his fist at the crow. ‘ ‘ You old beggar,” he 
said fondly, “ if that rooster was wise he’d go out with 
the rest of the chickens an’ scratch his breakfast, ’stead o’ 
quarrelin ’ with you. He don ’t know that you ’re doin ’ your 
best to starve him to death.” 

Billy knew that Croaker would hang close to his enemy 
all morning and feeling reasonably sure that no further 
trips to the hidden treasure would be made during his 
absence on his mother’s errand he started for Keeler’s. At 
the road gate he met Cobin coming in, a pitchfork on his 
shoulder. Keeler and Billy’s father “changed works” 
during wheat and com harvest, and the former was coming 
over to help haul in fodder. 

“ Ho, Billy! ” he boomed, gripping the lad’s arm in his 
huge hand, “ you won’t steal Maurice away from the work 
I’ve set him to do this mornin’, I’ll be bound. Baek to the 


TEACHER JOHNSTON RESIGNS 


239 


house you come with me, young man. I want Maurice to 
finish his job.” 

“ I don’t want Maurice,” Billy hastened to explain. 
“ Ma wants Missus Keeler to come over an’ give her a hand, 
so I’m on my way to tell her. Honest, Mr. Keeler, that’s 
right.” 

“ By Jimminy, you’ve fooled me so many times, Billy, I 
have an idea you might jest do it ag’in.” Mr. Keeler’s 
grip tightened, and his smile broadened. “ Cross your 
heart, it’s right? ” 

“ Yep, cross my heart, an’ spit on my thumb,” grinned 
Billy. 

Keeler’s roaring laugh might have been heard half a 
mile away. “ Well, along you go,” he shouted, lifting 
Billy bodily over the gate. “ You’ll find Ma deefer than 
usual on account of a cold in the head, so talk real close 
and loud to her. ’ ’ 

Billy found Mrs. Keeler peeling onions in the cook-house 
and after some trouble made her understand what was 
wanted. While she was shedding her apron and hunting 
for her hat he went outside. Maurice’s school-books and 
slate lay on the bench beneath the hop vine. Billy grinned 
as his eyes fell on them. He climbed to the top of the 
gate-post and searched the surrounding fields for his chum, 
locating him finally down near the ditch, a lonely and 
pathetic figure seated on a little knoll, methodically topping 
mangles with a sickle. His back was toward Billy and it 
took all the latter’s self restraint to refrain from giving 
the rally call, but he remembered what he had promised 
Maurice’s father. So he slid down from the post and 
picking up the slate, produced a stub of slate-pencil from 
a pocket and wrote a message in symbols. Then on the 
other side of the slate he duplicated the message, adding 


240 


A SON OP COURAGE 


the necessary key to the code. This was the message that 
Billy wrote: 



When Mrs. Keeler came out, laden with bake-pans and 
other kitchen utensils, Billy led her carefully across the 
stubble by a new route, nor did she dream his motive in 
so doing was to keep the house between them and the lone- 
some mangle-topper in the valley. 


CHAPTER XXIII 


MR. HINTER PROVES A PUZZLE 

October’s second morning dawned sullen and grey, with 
a chill wind banking slate-hued clouds in the sky. Deacon 
Ringold, taking the short cut across the stubble-fields to 
Wilson’s, shivered as he glanced back at the black lines 
his feet had cut through the crisp white frost, and decided 
to put on his woolen underclothes right away. The deacon 
had important and disturbing news to convey to his neigh- 
bor and had started out early to seek his counsel. 

As he climbed the rail fence his eyes swept the Settle- 
ment below, resting at length on the jail-like wall in the 
edge of the Scroggie timber, above which the tall derrick 
protruded like a white, scarred face. ‘ ‘ Humph ! ” he mused, 
“Scroggie and Hinter must either have struck water, or 
give up. Their rig’s quiet after chuggin’ away day and 
night for weeks. ’ ’ 

He glanced in the opposite direction to the blue smoke 
rising above the Wilson cedars. Then, as he prepared to 
climb down, he apparently changed his mind, for instead 
of taking the path to Tom Wilson’s he walked briskly 
down toward the walled in derrick. Reaching it he paused 
and an exclamation of surprise escaped him. On the door 
of the wall an iron padlock had been fastened. There was 
no sign of human life about the place but within the walls 
could be heard the fierce growling of dogs. Ringold 
backed away and eyed the tall derrick. There was mystery 
here and he didn’t relish mysteries. And there was a 

241 


242 


A SON OF COURAGE 


pungent, salty smell about the place — the smell that oily 
machinery gives off when put under intense heat. 

The deacon was curious to learn what caused that smell. 
He approached a little closer to the walls and scrutinized 
the ground carefully. It was stained with black patches 
of something and he saw that the planks of the wall and 
the portion of the derrick showing above it also were stained 
a greenish-black. He ran a finger over a greasy splash and 
sniffed. Then he backed away slowly, now nodding his 
head. He knew what had happened, just as well as though 
he had seen it. The careless drillers had exploded a bar- 
rel of coal-oil, and perhaps wrecked the drill. Yes, noth- 
ing surer. That had been the explosion which shook the 
windows of his home and awoke him several nights ago. 
Keeler and Wilson had heard it too. Well, it was too bad 
after all the trouble and expense Scroggie had gone to to 
find water for the Settlement. 

So the deacon went thoughtfully on his way to Wilson’s. 
He found Tom Wilson breakfasting alone. To the deacon’s 
look of surprise his neighbor vouchsafed the information 
that a glad and glorious band of young people had been 
“ cuttin’ up ” nearly all night there, and the boys and 
Ma were sleep in’ in, like. 

Ringold hung his hat on the stovepoker and got down 
to business at once. “ Say, Tom, I’ve had an offer for my 
back hundred. Don’ know whether to sell or not. Thought 
I’d like to hear what you’d advise.” 

Wilson drained his cup and set it down in the saucer, 
methodically. The news did not seem to surprise him. 
“ Who made the offer, Hinter? ” he asked. 

The deacon started. “ Yes, did he tell you about it? ” 

“No,” Wilson pushed back his chair and felt for his 
pipe, “ but he seems to want to own the whole Settlement. 


MR. HINTER PROVES A PUZZLE 


243 


He made me an offer for my place and he tried to buy 
Cobin Keeler’s farm, too, so Cobin says.” 

“ When, Tom, when? ” asked Ringold, eagerly. 

“ Last night. At least that’s when he made me my offer 
an’ he must have gone across to Cobin’s after he left me. 
Cobin jest left here not ten minutes ago. He come over 
to tell me all about it.” 

The deacon sat silent, thinking. “ What’s their game, 
Tom? ” he asked suddenly. 

“ His game you mean.” 

“ No, I don’t either, I mean his and Scroggie’s game; 
of course Scroggie’s behind him.” 

“ Yes,” agreed Wilson, “ I guess maybe he is. But, 
Deacon, I don’t know what their game is; wish I did.” 

‘ ‘ Did you talk sell, Tom ? ’ ’ asked Ringold, anxiously. 

“ No sir,” his neighbor answered promptly, “ I should 
say not. ’ ’ 

“ And Cobin — he ain’t any head at all, poor Cobin — 
did he talk sell? ” 

Wilson laughed. ‘ 4 Not Cobin. He ’s quite satisfied with 
his little farm, I guess. No, Hinter didn’t get much satis- 
faction from either of us.” 

The deacon jumped up and reached for his hat. “ Tom, 
I’m goin’ to saddle your roan and go ask a few questions 
of the other farmers, if you don’t mind.” 

“ Good idea,” agreed his neighbor. “ Here, you best 
set down and have a cup of coffee and I’ll saddle him, 
myself. ’ ’ 

“ No coffee, thanks; had breakfast; I’ll go ’long with 
you. Oh, by the way, Tom, I know now what caused that 
explosion t’other night,” and the deacon proceeded to re- 
late his investigation of the walled-in well. 

Wilson listened interestedly, until Ringold was through. 


244 


A SON OF COURAGE 


“ Well, they’ve been careful enough about hidin’ their 
good work, at any rate,” he said. “ You’d think they had 
somethin’ mighty precious inside them walls the way 
they’ve guarded it; but I’m sorry if they’ve met with an 
accident,” he added. “ Hinter did really seem anxious to 
get water.” 

They went out to the stable and Wilson saddled the 
roan. “ I’ll be back in an hour or so,” called the deacon 
as he rode away. 

He was as good as his word. Wilson was just finishing 
the morning’s milking, when the deacon returned. “ No 
other offers, Tom,” he said. “ Looks as though they were 
after this particular strip of territory. Anyhow it’s 
agreed that none of us will sell or rent without consultin’ 
the others, so I guess we can wait on Hinter ’s game all 
right. ’ ’ 

“ Didn’t see Scraff, did you? ” asked Wilson. 

“ No; I didn’t. Joe had left for Bridgetown to bring in 
a couple of duck-hunters to old man Swanson’s. Cleve- 
landers, they are, so I didn’t see him.” 

“ I’m afraid Joe’ll sell, if he gets a good offer,” re- 
flected Wilson. 

“ No, he’ll stick with the rest of us,” cried Ringold, 
emphatically, “ and I’ll tell you why. It’s just like his 
contrariness to do the very thing the others won’t do, but 
let me tell you somethin’. The very minute he makes a 
move I put the screws on him tight. Let him so much as 
whisper * sell ’ an’ he’ll pay me every cent he owes me, 
with interest. No, Tom, we needn’t feel scarey about Joe 
Scraff.” 

“ Well,” laughed Wilson, “ if anybody kin make Joe 
toe the scratch it’s you, Deacon. Didn’t see anythin’ of 
Hinter on your rounds, did you? ” 


MR. HINTER PROVES A PUZZLE 


245 


“ No, but I met Scroggie. That feller improves on 
acquaintance, Tom, he does so! He ain’t half bad after 
you get to know him. He seems to want to be neighborly, 
and while I think he’s backing Hinter in some way I’ve 
an idea he’s watching him pretty close.” 

“ Say anythin’ to him about Hinter ’s offer to buy? ” 

“ Nary a word but I asked him what he intended to do 
with the Scroggie hardwoods. He told me that he had 
sold it to a lumber company. He says there’ll be a big 
camp of cutters and sawyers down here this winter. I 
said I supposed he’d be goin’ back to the States jest as 
soon as he got things cleared up here, an’ you ought to 
see the queer look he gave me. 

“ ‘ I’m not sure that I’ll go back to the States,’ he 
said, ‘ it all depends; besides,’ says he, ‘ my boy and girl 
like this place and the people and I reckon I’ve got enough 
money to live wherever I like.’ 

“ Well, I’ll put the roan in the stable, Tom; then I’ll 
mosey ’cross home and get my men at the cider-makin ’. 
A few frosts like last night’s, an’ all the apples will be 
soured. See you tonight at prayer-meetin ’. ” 

Wilson picked up his pails and carried them to the 
fence. Seeing Billy emerge from the house he placed 
them on the top step of the stile and waited. 

“ Have a good time last night? ” he asked. 

Billy grinned, “ You bet! I tell you Ma kin certainly 
roast partridge fine, an’ say, can’t old Harry play the 
dandiest tune you ever heard? Lou says he puts all the 
songs of the wood-birds into one sweet warble.” 

“ I guess whatever Lou says is jest about right, eh? ” 
Billy blushed to the roots of his hair but his grey eyes 
met his father’s steadily. “Yep,” he answered, “Jest 
about right” 


246 


A SON OF COURAGE 


Billy lifted the pails and turned up the path. 

“ Where have you put that man-eatin’ swamp coon? ” 
asked his father as he followed. “ I believe he’s gettin’ 
cross. You’ll have to watch him.” 

“ Oh, Ringdo ain’t cross,” laughed Billy, “ he’s only 
playful. He’s over to Teacher Stanhope’s. He’s so fond 
of the teacher he won’t stay away from him.” 

Billy set the pails down on the block outside the milk- 
house and rubbed his cheek against Croaker, who had just 
alighted on his shoulder. “ Are you goin’ to show me 
where you found the gold-pieces, Croaker? ” he asked, 
stroking the ruffled plumage smooth. 

Croaker shooked his head and hopped to the ground. 
He had grown tired of having Billy put that question to 
him. With many throaty and indignant mutterings he 
pigeontoed across the yard, not even deigning to glance 
back at the laughing man and boy. 

“ Pa,” said Billy, “ would you mind cornin’ to the 
woodshed an’ lookin’ over my open water decoys. I’ve 
been restringin’ ’em, an’ weightin’ the canvasbacks an’ 
redheads, an’ givin’ the bluebills a fresh coat o’ paint. 
I’d like to know what you think of my job.” 

“ I heard you and Frank Stanhope arrangin’ to go after 
bay ducks t’other day,” said Wilson as he followed Billy 
into the shed. 

“ Yep, we’re goin’ tomorrow if this weather holds. I’ll 
go over this afternoon to fix up a hide on Mud point.” 

“ You seem to have managed the stringin’ all right,” 
said the father, examining the wooden ducks on the work 
bench. * ‘ A little too much white on the bluebills, I ’d say. ’ ’ 

4 ‘ That’s jest what I thought,” said Billy. “ I’ll darken 
it some.” 

Wilson leaned against the bench and waited. He knew 


MR. HINTER PROVES A PUZZLE 247 

that Billy had brought him into the shed to speak of other 
things than decoys. 

“ Pa,” said the boy, in guarded tones, “ you best watch 
that man Hinter, an’ watch him close.” 

“ Why? ” said Wilson. 

“ Cause he’s up to some game, an’ I know it.” 

“ But what makes you suspicious of Hinter?” asked his 
father gravely. “ Hasn’t he always minded his own busi- 
ness and been a law-abidin’, quiet livin man? ” 

“ Yep,” Billy admitted, slowly, “ that’s it. He’s all 
right in lots of ways, but in other ways ” 

He paused. “ See here, Pa,” he cried, “ I happen to 
know one er two things about Hinter that I don’t like. He’s 
the boss of at least two bad men, an’ I guess maybe there’s 
more in the gang, too. ’ ’ 

” And who are these two men ? What have they done? ” 

“ They’re the two who’ve been workin’ his drillin’ rig; 
an’ they’re the men that robbed the Twin Oaks store.” 

“ How do you know this? ” Wilson asked sharply. 

“ I know it ’cause Maurice an’ me saw ’em on the very 
night the store was robbed, out in Scroggie ’s woods. They 
had a lantern. We heard ’em speak about hidin’ some- 
thin’ in the ha’nted house.” 

“ And that’s where Harry found the stolen stuff,” 
mused Wilson. “ What else, Billy? ” 

“ It was them two who brought Hinter ’s drillin’-rig 
’cross the lake in a schooner. I saw ’em the day they 
teamed it in. I knowed ’em both an’ Pa, I overheard ’em 
talkin’ ’bout hidin’ the stolen stuff in the ha’nted house.” 

“ Have you told anybody else about this besides me, 
Billy? ” 

“ No,” answered Billy, promptly, “ not even Teacher 
Stanhope. ’ ’ 


248 


A SON OF COURAGE 


Wilson looked relieved. “ I can’t make head er tail 
of it,” he said, frowning. 4 4 I can’t think that Hinter is 
behind the men in any deviltry.” 

“ His name ain’t Hinter,” said Billy. “ It’s Jacobs.” 

“ What? ” 

“It’s Jacobs. Listen, Pa, I’ll tell you how I know. 
Anse, you remember, was sort of helper with them drill* 
ers till he got askin’ too many questions an’ they fired 
him. Well, all he asked ’em, I put him up to ask. Anse 
was always a mighty good listener an’ he often heard 
these two, Jack and Tom, speak of Jacobs an’ call him 
boss. An’ one day when Hinter comes over, Anse heard 
one of ’em call him Jacobs, an’ Hinter was awful mad 
about it.” 

“ Well! ” was all Wilson could say, and he repeated 
it to himself several times, dazedly. 

Billy was watching him closely. “ Pa,” he said earn- 
estly, “ there’s something else I might as well let you 
know while I’m about it. This man Hinter owns a 
schooner, er leastways is boss of one, an’ it was her 
brought them drillin’ rigs ’cross the lake. The boat’s 
been layin’ along the Point, a mile out from shore fer 
more’n a month now, an’ Hinter has been keepin’ in 
touch with her right along.” 

“ But how do you know this? ” asked Wilson in 
amazement. Billy hesitated before answering. “ I know 
it,” he said, “ ’cause every night that he rides to the 
lighthouse Maurice an’ me sail up there an’ sort o’ hide 
up till he leaves.’ 

“ But why, Billy? ’ 

“ ’Cause he — he wants Erie,” said the boy, miserably, 
“an she won’t marry him. We’ve wondered why he’s 
been holdin’ the schooner close in. So we been watchin’ 


MR. HINTER PROVES A PUZZLE 


249 


Hinter. An’ one night we follered him down the bar 
to the pines, an’ we seen him signal the schooner. He 
built a little fire on the shore. 

“ After a little we saw a light ’way out on the lake. It 
stayed where it was an by an’ by we heard oars. A boat 
landed an’ a man Hinter called Cap’n, came across to 
where he sat by the fire.” 

“And did you hear anythin’ of what passed between 
’em, Billy? ” 

“ Yep, we heard Hinter say Scroggie was a headstrong 
fool, an’ he wished he’d never had anythin’ to do with 
him; but that he’d have to handle him with gloves till he 
got Lost Man’s Swamp away from him.” 

Wilson whistled. “ What in the world does he want 
with that swamp, I wonder? ” he cried. 

He stood considering. “ We’ll just keep what we know 
to ourselves till we ’re quite sure, ’ ’ he said at length. ‘ * What 
d ’ye say ? ’ ’ 

Billy nodded. “ That’s what Trigger Finger ’ud do,” 
he said, “an’ Trigger Finger, he was always right, Pa.” 


CHAPTER XXIV 


BILLY TO THE RESCUE 

Nature had crooked a wooded arm about Rond Eau 
Bay so that her tranquillity seldom was disturbed by the 
fall gales which piled the waters of Lake Erie high and 
made her a veritable death-trap for late-sailing ships. To 
the thunder of heavy waves upon the pine-clad beach the 
little bay slept sweetly, while half a league beyond the 
bar a tempest-torn, dismasted schooner might be battered 
to pieces, or a heavy freighter, her back broken by the 
twisting seas, might sink to final rest. But there were 
times when Rond Eau awoke from her dreaming to gnash 
her white teeth and throw her hissing challenge to man 
to dare ride her banked-up seas in open boat. At such 
times only the foolish or venturesome listened. When the 
gale swept in from the East it transformed the upper 
waters into a seething cauldron, while, plunging in the 
nine-mile sweep from the West, it swept water at the 
foot, frothing and turbulept, across the rushlands. 

At such times expert indeed must be the hand that 
guides the frail skiff through those treacherous seas. But 
the slim punt which rounded Mud Point betwixt the 
darkness and the dawn, in the teeth of an all night gale, 
was propelled by one who knew every whimsical mood 
of Rond Eau. Now high on frothy comber, now lost 
to view between the waves, the little craft beat onward, 
a speck of driftwood on the angry waves. Sullen day- 
light was revealing a world of wind-whipped, spray- 
drenched desolation when the punt at last rounded the 

250 


BILLY TO THE RESCUE 


251 


point and swept into the comparative calm of the lee 
shore. Then the rower shipped his oars and glanced at 
his companion who sat huddled low in the bow of the 
boat, the collar of his shooting coat turned high about 
his ears. 

“ Phew! teacher, some pull, that! Must a’ been half 
an hour heatin’ up from Levee.” 

“ It seemed longer than that to me, Billy,” laughed 
Stanhope. “ Once or twice I thought we were goners, but 
you pulled the old girl through nobly.” 

“ I don’t know as I ever put her through a rougher 
sea,” said Billy as he began placing the decoys. “ We’ll 
get set, then we’ll push into the rushes, hide our boat, 
an’ settle down comfortable in our blind. You’ll find it 
warm, an’ snug, an’ wind-proof as a rat house, soon’s I 
get a fire started in the little stove. Hello! ” as a brown 
shaggy head poked itself from beneath the seat and a 
cold nose touched his wrist, ‘ 1 did you think I didn ’t know 
you was there, Moll ? ’ ’ 

Moll whined and wagged her stub of a tail, undoubtedly 
sensing from her master’s words and manner that her 
offense, in “ sneakin’ in,” had been pardoned. Five min- 
utes later they were seated snugly inside four walls of 
tightly woven rushes, the blind man’s face alive and 
glowing with the joy of once more feeling the moist kiss 
of open water, his ears atuned for the first whistle of 
incoming wings. Billy crouched by his side, gun in 
hand, eyes sweeping the lighting bay. 

Suddenly the spaniel’s tail commenced beating a soft 
tattoo on the rush floor and Billy’s grip tightened on the 
walnut stock. 

“ How many? ” whispered Stanhope. 

“ Five, bluebill. Cornin’ right to us.” 


252 


A SON OF COURAGE 


A moment later the “ swowee ” of the cutting wings 
sounded, close in, and the old gun spoke twice. 

“ Two down,” cried Stanhope. “ Good work, Billy! ” 
Billy took his eyes from the pair of dead ducks, floating 
shoreward and turned wonderingly to his companion. 

“ Teacher,” he said in awed tones, “ sometimes I’m sure 
you kin see. If you can’t see how do you find out things 
like you do? How did you know I killed jest two ducks? ” 
“ Listened for the splash,” Stanhope answered. “Are 
you loaded, Billy? There’s another flock coming.” 

“All ready but cappin’. Now, where’s the flock? ” 

4 * Coming up from behind, so Moll says. ’ ’ 

“ Gosh! ” whispered Billy. “ I should say so; they’re 
right onto us,” and almost with the words the old gun 
roared again and again. 

“ Good! ” exulted Stanhope. “ Three down, Billy! ” 
“ Yep, but one dived an’ is gettin’ away. After him, 
Moll.” The spaniel, with a joyful whine, cleared the rush 
wall and splashed into the water. * * Fine ! ’ ’ cried Billy, 
as he reloaded, “ Moll’s goin’ to bring him in.” 

“ Wounded whistlers aren’t as hard to retrieve as red- 
head or bluebill, ’ ’ said Stanhope. 

“ How did you know they was whistlers? ” cried Billy. 
“ By the sound of their wings, of course,” laughed the 
man. “There,” as a small duck flashed past the blind, 
“ that’s a green-winged teal, and he’s flying at the rate of 
about ninety miles an hour. ’ ’ 

Eastward the leaden clouds opened to let an arrow of 
orange light pierce the damp mists of dawn; then the 
fissure closed again and tardy daylight disclosed only a 
dun-colored waste of cowering rushes and tossing water. 
Far out in the bay a great flock of ducks arose, the beat 
of their wings growing up above the boom of the wind. 


BILLY TO THE RESCUE 


253 


stood black against the lowering skies an instant, then 
swept like a gigantic shadow close down above the curling 
water. Here and there detached fragments of the flock 
grew up and drifted shoreward. A flock of widgeon, gleam- 
ing snow-white against the clouds as they swerved in 
toward the decoys, were joined by a pair of kingly can- 
vasbacks. Swiftly they approached, twisted aside just out 
of range, and then turned and came in with wings set 
against the wind. 

Stanhope heard the splash of their bodies, as they lit 
among the decoys. He wondered why Billy did not shoot. 
A tense moment passed and still the old gun gave no voice. 
Moll was whining low and eagerly. Then, suddenly, there 
arose the sound of webbed feet slapping water, strong wings 
lifted to the wind, and Stanhope knew that the ducks had 
gone. 

“ Billy! ” he cried, “ why didn’t you shoot? ” 

“ I guess I didn't think about it,” said the boy. 
* There’s a boat out yonder, an’ she’s havin’ trouble. I was 
watchin’ her.” 

“ A boat in trouble? Where is she? ” 

“ Out in the middle of the bay. There’s two men in 
her; she must be shippin’ water, ’cause she’s low down. 
She’s one of Swanson’s boats. He ought ’a know better 
than let a couple of greenies out on that sea.” 

Billy had thrown off his shooting-coat and was climbing 
out of the blind. 

“ What are you going to do? ” asked Stanhope. 

“ Goin* out to give a hand,’* shouted Billy. “ No 
teacher, you best stay right here; you can’t help me any 
an’ I may have to bring them two shooters ashore in the 
punt.” 

His last words were drowned in the wind. Already he 


254 


A SON OF COURAGE 


was dragging the punt from the reeds. A moment later 
Stanhope heard the dip of his oars as he rounded the point 
and put the tiny craft into the seas and his cheerful hail, 
“ I’ll be back soon, teacher.” 

With broadening day the gale had strengthened. Stan- 
hope felt a few stinging snow-pellets on his face, as he 
gazed, unseeing, outward and waited with tense nerves for 
the hail of his young friend. Half an hour passed — it 
seemed like hours to the man waiting, hoping, fearing — 
and still Billy did not come. He replenished the fire and, 
his hand coming in contact with the coat which Billy had 
discarded, he held it on his knees, close to the little stove. 
Slowly the minutes dragged past and a cold dread of what 
might have happened grew in the blind man ’s heart. Billy 
had likely reached the boat only in time to see it founder 
and in striving to save its exhausted occupants . 

Unable to endure the thought Stanhope sprang to his 
feet and lifting his arms high shouted with all his strength, 
“ Billy, Billy boy! ” 

“ Ho, teacher! ” came an answering voice. “ We’re 
comin ’ straight in with the wind. I ’ve got ’em both. ’ ’ 

Stanhope sank back on his box, his relaxed nerves throb- 
bing and his lips forming the words: “ Thank God! ” 

A few minutes later Billy tumbled into the blind. 
“ Quick,” he cried, as he drew on his coat. “ They ’re 
nigh done fer. We’ve gotta keep ’em movin’. Good! I 
see you’ve heated the tea; I’ll jest take it along. We’ll 
leave gun an’ decoys right here with Moll to watch ’em, 
’cause we’re likely to have our hands full. Are you ready, 
teacher? ” 

“All set,” cried Stanhope. “ Leave your belt loose so 
I can hang to it and I’m with you. That’s right. Who 
were they, Billy ? ’ ’ 


BILLY TO THE RESCUE 


255 


“ Couple of shooters from Cleveland. One of ’em’s a 
big, strong feller, an’ he ain’t as near done up as the 
other. I started ’em to shore along the rush-track. 
They’ll be all hunky so long as they keep goin’. We 
best get ’em to the nearest house.” 

“ Well, that’s my place,” answered Stanhope. “ How 
am I navigating, Billy? ” 

4 1 Fine ; keepin ’ up as well as though you saw right 
where you’re goin’. They’re only a little ahead now.” 

As the wooded shore was reached they came up with the 
rescued men. Billy passed the chilled and wretched two 
the hot tea and after they had drunk he and Stanhope 
took the lead through the stumpy fields. 

Half an hour later, seated about the roaring fire in 
Stanhope’s cottage, huge cups of hot coffee on their knees, 
the venturesome strangers seemed none the worse for their 
trying experience. The larger of the two, a powerfully- 
built man with pleasant clean shaven face and keen blue 
eyes, turned now to Stanhope. 

“ Where did the boy go? ” he asked. “ He must have 
been wet to the skin.” 

“ He went back to take up the decoys and bring in the 
boats,” answered Stanhope. “ Oh, Billy’s used to rough- 
ing it. He’ll be back directly.” 

“ By George! ” cried the big man, slapping his friend’s 
knee. “ There’s a boy for you, Doctor. Why, sir,” address- 
ing Stanhope, “ not one youngster in a thousand could 
have done what he did. When he came to us our boat 
was all but swamped. We had given up. My friend here 
was utterly helpless with the cold and I was little better. 
And then he came riding close in like a mere straw on the 
waves and something flashed past me and fell with a bump 
against our boat-seat. ‘Bale,’ he screeched, and I picked 


256 


A SON OF COURAGE 


up the can he had thrown us and bale I did for all I was 
worth. Then he came shooting back. ‘ You got to get out 
of that trough/ he shouted. * Throw your painter loose, 
so’s I can grab it as I pass, and I’ll straighten your bow 
to take the seas/ ” 

The speaker paused, his face aglow. ‘ ‘ I managed to cast 
that painter loose and the boy caught it as he shot past us. 
Then I felt the skiff straighten and I heard him shout 
again, ‘ Bale ! bale like fury ! ’ So I baled and baled and 
by and by we shipped less water than I managed to throw 
out. All this time that youngster was hauling us in to 
safety. I don’t know who the boy is, but let me tell you 
this, my friend, if I was his daddy I’d be the proudest 
man on the face of the earth.” 

His companion, a slight, stooped man, the sallowness of 
whose face was accentuated by a short black moustache, who 
had remained almost silent from the time he had entered 
the house, looked up at these words and smiled. “ We 
owe that boy and this gentleman our lives,” he said briefly. 

The big man laid a hand on Stanhope ’s arm. 4 ‘ My good 
friend, ’ ’ he said, * ‘ will you allow me to introduce you to 
the grateful chaps you have helped save. This gentleman 
with me is the famous specialist, Doctor Cavinalt of Cleve- 
land; and yours truly is plain Bill Maddoc of the same 
city, lawyer by profession.” 

“ My friend has forgotten to mention that he is state’s 
attorney and a noted bugbear to all evil-doers,” smiled 
the doctor. “ In other words he’s known as Trail Down 
Maddoc and — if he will permit of my so stating — is far 
more famous in his own particular line than am I in mine.” 

“ Tut, tut,” cried Maddoc, “ what matter such trifles as 
these at this time? And now,” turning to their host, “ if 
you will honor us? ” 


BILLY TO THE RESCUE 


257 


“ My same is Stanhope; Frank Stanhope.” 

“ What? ” The lawyer was on his feet and had his 
hands on Frank’s shoulders. 

“ You say Stanhope? Why, man alive! I’ve been look- 
ing high and low for you. What do you think of that, 
Doctor, I ’ve found him at last ! ’ ’ 

“ Young man,” said Maddoe, turning again to Frank, 
“ will you please answer a few questions? Did you ever 
know a queer old man by the name of Scroggie? ” 

“ Why, yes,” Frank answered, somewhat puzzled. “ He 
lived next farm to me.” 

“And,” Maddoe resumed, “ do you happen to know 
that he made a will, leaving all he possessed to you ? ’ ’ 
'“Yes, sir, so he said; but the will was never found.” 
“ And for a very good reason, by George,” cried Mad- 
doe. “ How could it be found when it lay safely locked 
in a deposit box in my vault? ” 

“I’m afraid I don’t quite understand — ” commenced 
the amazed Stanhope. 

“ Of course not, how eould you? ” cried the lawyer. 
“ But there now, I’ll explain. 

“ One morning something over a year ago a queer little 
man came to my office. He told me his name, Scroggie, 
but refused to give me any address. He said he wished 
to make his will and insisted that I draw it up. It was 
a simple will, as I remember it, merely stating that * I 
something-or-other, Scroggie, hereby bequeath all my 
belongings, including land and money, to Frank Stan- 
hope. ’ I made it out exactly as he worded it, had it sealed 
and witnessed and handed it to him. But the old fellow 
refused to take it. I asked him why, and he said: ‘ You 
keep it safe until I send for it I ’m willin ’ to pay for your 
trouble. ’ 


258 


A SON OF COURAGE 


“ * But listen, old man/ I said, ‘ supposing you should 
die suddenly. Life is very uncertain, you know. This will 
should be left where it can be easily found, don’t you see? ’ 

“ ‘ That’s just where I don’t want it left,’ he says. ‘ I 
want it kept safe. I’ll take a chance on dying suddenly.’ 
And by George! the old fellow got up and shambled out, 
leaving a twenty-dollar gold piece on the table.” 

“ Then,” said Frank, moistening his dry lips, “ you 
have the will, Mr. Maddoe? ” 

“ I have ! ” cried the delighted lawyer, “ and whether he 
left you much or little nobody can dispute your claim. 
Young man, shake hands again! ” 

But Stanhope had sunk on a chair, his face in his hands. 
Doctor Cavinalt went softly over and stood beside him. 
4 4 My friend,” he said gently, “ good news often bowls 
us over, but perhaps there’s even better news in store for 
you. Fortune is a good thing, but with fortune and your 
eye-sight restored ’ ’ 

Frank lifted a wan face. “ You mean ? ” his dry 

lips formed the words. 

The slender sensitive fingers of the specialist lifted the 
lids of the unseeing eyes. Intently he examined them, 
then with a quick smile that transformed his grave face to 
almost boyish gladness, he spoke. 

“ It is as I thought, Mr. Stanhope. Your sight is quite 
unimpaired and can be restored to you by a simple opera- 
tion. Your blindness was caused either from a blow or a 
fall, was it not? ” 

Frank nodded. “A beam struck me,” he whispered, “ I 
thought — I thought — ” 

“ Tomorrow,” said the doctor, retiring once more into 
his professional shell, “ I shall remove the pressure that 
obstructs your vision. The operation, which will be Muost 


BILLY TO THE RESCUE 


259 


simple, ean be performed here. We have but to remove 
all pressure on the nerve centres that refuse their func- 
tion now — and you will see.” 

He motioned to his friend, and the two went over to the 
window and talked together in low tones. 

Stanhope, hands clasped together, sat staring into a vista 
of shadows that were all but dissolved. Above them lifted 
a face that smiled — and down across sleeping, darkening 
waters a long ray of light swept to touch his unseeing eyes 
and whisper her message of hope. 

***** 

It was nearly noon when Billy, bending beneath a load 
of wild ducks, came up the path to the cottage. Stanhope, 
reading his step, groped his way out to meet him. “ Ho, 
Billy Boy,” he cried, holding out his hands. 

Billy placed his wet, cold ones in Stanhope’s. “ I sim- 
ply had to stay an’ shoot,” he explained. “ The ducks 
were fair poundin’ into the decoys. How are the Cleve- 
land fellers? ” 

4 ‘ Good as ever, Billy, dried out — and gone. Come into 
the house. I’ve got great news.” 

Billy turned puzzled eyes on his friend, reading a won- 
derful happiness in the glowing face. He dropped his 
ducks and followed Stanhope inside. The table was set 
for dinner and Billy sniffed hungrily. 

“ Now teacher,” he said, dropping into a seat by the 
fire, “ give us the news.” 

But Stanhope shook his head. “ Not yet, Billy. Wait 
until you’ve eaten. You’re hungry — as all hunters are 
bound to be. There now,” as his housekeeper brought in 
the meat and potatoes, * ‘ sit down and eat — and eat fast, 
because I can’t keep my good news back much longer.” 

Billy sat down at the table and without a word fell to. 


260 


A SON OF COURAGE 


Stanhope stood beside the window, humming a tune, a 
smile on his face. He roused himself from his musing, as 
Billy seraped back his chair. ‘ ‘ Full up ? ’ ’ he asked. 

“ Full up, teacher. Now let’s have the good news.” 

Stanhope told him, his voice not always steady, and 
Billy sat silent, his grey eyes growing bigger and bigger. 
And at the conclusion he did a very boyish thing. He 
lowered his head to the table and cried. 

Stanhope groped his way to him, placed his hands gently 
on the heaving shoulders, and there they remained until 
Billy, with a long sigh, raised his swimming eyes. 

“ Teacher,” he said. “ She’s gotta be told about this. 
You know how she always hoped ” 

“ Yes.” 

Billy stood up and reached for his cap. “ If Anse 
comes over, you kin tell him where I ’ve gone. I ’ll be back 
long afore dark. ’ ’ 

“ But, Billy, the wind! You’d better not go.” 

“ The wind’s gone down,” said the boy. “Jest a fair 
sailin’ breeze now.” 

“ She’ll come, you think? ” 

“ She’ll come,” said Billy, and went out, closing the 
door softly behind him. 


CHAPTER XXV 


MR. HINTER MAKES A CONFESSION 

It was the evening of the next day. Frank Stanhope 
lay on a couch in a darkened room, a black bandage across 
his eyes. Erie Landon sat beside him, holding his hand. 
The pungent odor of ether hung in the air. Out in the 
dining room old Doctor Allworth, from Bridgetown, was 
discussing with the specialist things known only to those 
men of science. 

Erie was very happy — happier than she had ever 
expected to be again. Doctor Cavinalt had pronounced 
the operation a success ; in a week or ten days the bandage 
might be taken off. God’s world of light and beauty was 
to be his again — and hers! 

Stanhope felt the unconscious tightening of her fingers 
and spoke her name ever so softly. She gave a little, con- 
tented sigh, and nestled her gooI cheek against his own. 

“ I was dreaming of the foot of the Causeway,” he 
whispered, ‘ ‘ and the light. ’ ’ 

“And it reached straight across through the blackness, 
to you ? ’ ’ she asked. 

“ Straight to me, dear; and at the farther end of its 
misty radiance I saw you standing. You stretched your 
dear arms out to me and along the shimmering track, drawn 
by your great and tender woman ’s love, I sped to you. ’ 9 

“And found me, Frank? 99 

“ Found you,” he echoed joyfully. “ Found you as I 
have prayed through lightless days I might, some day, find 
you, blue-eyed girl with heart of gold ; found you with your 

261 


262 


A SON OF COURAGE 


hope, your loyalty, your tenderness and your forgiveness. ’ ’ 

‘ 1 And now, ’ ’ she whispered, ‘ ‘ there lie the days of sun- 
shine and happiness ahead of us, Frank; and oh, how we 
will enjoy them, you and I and Billy.’ ’ 

“ Yes, we mustn’t forget Billy, God bless him.” 

In the outer room the learned discussion was terminated 
suddenly by a loud exclamation from the old doctor. 

“ God love us, it’s a crow! ” he cried, “ and the rascal 
has appropriated my glasses! Laid ’em on my chair-arm 
for an instant and the cheeky beggar swooped in through 
the open window and picked ’em up.” 

“ That’s Croaker,” laughed Erie. “ Billy won’t be far 
behind him. I had better go out and explain things, 
Frank. ’ ’ 

She touched her warm lips to his and went into the 
adjoining room to find Croaker perched on a curtain- pole, 
animatedly congratulating himself on the new and won- 
derful shiny thing he had been so fortunate as to dis- 
cover. 

“ Croaker,” Erie called. At the sound of her voice the 
crow stopped trying to tear the nosepiece from the lens 
and cocked his head side-wise. 

“ Kowakk,” he gurgled, which meant “ I thought I 
knew you, Miss, but I guess I don’t.” 

‘ * Croaker, good old Croaker, come down and I ’ll get you 
a cookie,” Erie begged. 

Croaker considered this last statement a moment. Then 
he carefully raised one foot and twisted half way around 
on the bar. 

“A cookie, a nice fat cookie, with a raisin in its cen- 
tre,” coaxed the girl. 

The crow lifted the other foot and with much fluttering 
and complaining managed to get all the way around. 


MR. HINTER MAKES A CONFESSION 263 

Mrs. Burke had brought in a plate of cookies. Erie took 
one and held it up, as an enticement to Croaker. 

“ Want it? ” she asked. “ Then come down and be a 
good crow. ’ ’ 

Then it was that Croaker, gripping the glasses in one 
black claw, burst into a cry of joyful recognition. 

Just at this juncture the shed door was nosed softly open 
and a striped, furry animal rolled into the room like a 
ball and, raising himself on his hind legs, took the cookie 
from Erie’s hand. 

“ Ringdo, you old sweetheart!” cried the girl and, 
reaching for the big swamp-coon, gathered him into her 
arms. 

Doctor Allworth, after one startled look at the ferocious- 
looking newcomer, had climbed upon the table and now 
gazed wildly at the strange sight of a golden haired girl 
holding to her bosom a wild animal which might be any- 
thing from a wolf to a grizzly, for aught he knew. 

At the sound of the girl’s voice the swamp coon had 
dropped the cookie, and as she swept him into her arms 
his slender red tongue darted forth to give the curling 
tress above her ear an affectionate caress. Ringdo recog- 
nized in Erie the playmate who used to romp with him 
and stray with him along spongy moss and clayey ditches. 

At this particular moment Croaker, from whom atten- 
tion had for the time being been diverted, came into evi- 
dence again. At first sight of his old enemy the crow had 
grown rigid with anger; his black neck-ruff had stood up 
like the feathers on an Indian warrior’s head dress and 
into his beady eyes had sprung the fighting-fire. When 
Ringdo got possession of the cookie he raised his short 
wings and prepared to swoop, strike, and if luck held, 
swoop again. But when the coon dropped the cookie that 


264 


A SON OF COURAGE 


lie might show the girl who had come back to the old play- 
ground that he was glad Croaker promptly changed his 
mind. He swooped, but on the precious cookie instead of 
on Ringdo, and with the prize in his black beak and the 
glasses dangling from one black claw, he went out of the 
©pen window like a dark streak. 

The old doctor sighed dolefully. “ Well, my glasses 
are gone,” he murmured. “ And how I will ever do with- 
out ’em, I don’t know.” Then, becoming suddenly aware 
of his ridiculous position, he stepped ponderously down 
from the table to his chair. 

Hiding her laughing face in Ringdo ’s long fur, Erie 
reassured him. 1 ‘ Please, Doctor Allworth, don ’t be fright- 
ened of this old coon,” she said. “ Indeed, he is quite 
harmless. ’ ’ 

“ Perhaps so,” returned the old gentleman dryly, ” but, 
you see, I happen to have heard an opinion of friend Ring- 
do’s gentle nature from a certain learned pedagogue, 
whose wounds I dressed recently. So, my dear young 
lady, if you will be good enough to keep tight hold of him 
for a moment, I’ll follow my renowned friend into the 
parlor and learn how Frank is coming along.” And suit- 
ing the action to the words he edged slowly around the 
table and, backing into the parlor, closed the door. 

“ Ringdo,” cried Erie, slapping the coon’s fat sides, 
“ you can’t possibly see your friend, Frank, now so come 
along. We’ll have a race down the path and a scramble 
among the leaves.” 

She caught her hat from a peg, opened the door, and 
Ringdo gamboled out before her. Down the path to the 
gate they sped and out into the tree-hedged road. Already 
the frost-pinched leaves, crimson-veined and golden, were 
being swung to earth by a soft wind that promised snow. 


MR. HINTER MAKES A CONFESSION 265 


With Ringdo galloping clumsily beside her Erie went 
down the road, trilling a snatch of a song. 

She did not realize what a perfect picture she presented, 
with her golden hair wind-strewn, her red lips parted, and 
the old joy singing in her heart and kindling a light in 
her eyes. But the boy who met her at the curve in the road 
realized it, and his face grew wistful as he asked: 1 ‘ Is he 
all right, Erie? ” 

“ He is all right, Billy/’ she answered softly. 

Billy’s grey eyes grew big with realization and a long 
sigh escaped his lips. He bent above the coon, who had 
sprawled in the dust, all four feet in the air, inviting a 
tussle. The girl saw something glitter and splash on the 
dark fur and her throat tightened. “ Oh Billy, Billy,” 
she choked, and with all the abandon of her nature stooped 
and gathered boy and animal close to her. 

A little later they went back up the road, side by side. 
Ringdo having heard the call of the forest-creek had 
strayed into the tangle, perhaps hoping to find a fat frog 
which had not yet sought its winter sleeping-bog. They 
paused to watch a red squirrel flash along the zig-zag fence 
and halt, with twitching tail, as the chatter of the black 
he was pursuing came down to him from swaying hickory 
tree-top. High overhead a flock of crows passed silently, 
black hurtling bodies seeming to brush the grey, low hang- 
ing skies as they melted into distance. High above, the 
shrill whistle of wings told of wild ducks seeking the 
marshes and the celery beds of the bay. 

“ Erie,” spoke the boy as they turned to resume their 
way, “ Ma told me to tell you that she’d be over ag’in 
tonight to stay with you. She ’s had an awful time keepin ’ 
teacher’s friends from swarmin’ over to see how he was 
gettin’ along an’ she says she simply had to promise that 


266 


A SON OF COURAGE 


they could come over after supper. I guess the whole 
Settlement is over to our place. I better lope along an’ 
tell ’em the good news. ’ ’ He turned away as they reached 
the gate — then hesitated. 

“ Anything I can tell him , Billy? 99 asked Erie, noticing 
his reluctance. 

“ No, but there’s somethin’ I ought ’a tell you, I guess,” 
he answered. “ I’ve jest come from old Swanson’s board- 
in’ house, at the foot. Mr. Maddoc an’ the specialist 
doctor are goin’ to leave there an’ stay at teacher’s, as you 
likely know? ” 

Erie nodded. “ They told me all about it. How they 
are going to shoot from your Mud Point, and how good it 
was of you to let them,” she smiled. 

Billy grinned. “ Say! ” he murmured, “ as if there 
was anythin’ any of us wouldn’t do fer them now. Well, 
Mr. Maddoc, who’s havin’ Joe Scraff drive down fer their 
stuff tonight, was cornin’ along up with me when we met 
Hinter, ’bout a mile back on the road.” 

He paused and searched the girl’s face. “ You see, 
Erie,” he said slowly, “ I’d been tellin’ Mr. Maddoc all 
about how Hinter an’ Scroggie had been tryin’ to find 
water fer us, an’ how they had had a barrel of oil explode, 
an’ everythin’. Somehow he didn’t seem a bit like a 
stranger. I didn’t mind tellin’ him at all. Why, I even 
told him about the Twin Oaks store robbery, an’ about 
Hinter wantin’ to get hold of Lost Man’s Swamp, an’ 
everythin’. 

“ He was awful interested, an’ asked me to show him 
the fenced-in well. So we took ’cross the fields an’ he saw 
it. He went all around the walls an’ even climbed up one 
side of ’em, an’ looked over. When he came down he said : 
‘Jest as I thought, Billy. That explosion you spoke of 


MR. HINTER MAKES A CONFESSION 267 


was a charge of nitro glycerine.’ We struck back fer the 
road an’ I guess he was thinkin’ hard, ’cause he didn’t 
talk any more. Then, as we was climbin’ the fence to the 
road he asks: ‘ What kind of a chap is this man, Hinter, 
Billy? ’ 

“ 4 Why,’ I says, ‘there he is now.’ Hinter had jest 
climbed the opposite fence an’ stepped into the road. Mr. 
Maddoc slid down an’ went right up to him. Hinter ’s 
face turned white when he saw Mr. Maddoc. He couldn’t 
speak fer a minute, an’ then all he did was mumble 
somethin’. 

‘ * ‘ Billy, ’ Mr. Maddoc says to me, ‘ would you go on a 
piece an’ leave me alone with this man. You see we’ve 
met before an’ I want ’a ask him some questions.’ 

“ So I come on an’ I guess Mr. Maddoc had a whole lot 
of questions to ask fer he ain’t come yet.” 

Erie was standing against the gate, her arms stretched 
along its top, hands clenching its rough pickets. 

“ There, he’s coming now, Billy,” she whispered, as the 
lawyer’s tall form swung about the curve in the road. 
“ No, don’t go yet; perhaps he will have something more 
to tell us.” 

But the lawyer, apparently, had nothing to tell them. 
Gravely he lifted his hat to Erie, threw a smile of good- 
fellowship to Billy and turned up the path to the cottage. 

No sooner had Billy gone, leaving Maddoc alone with 
Hinter, than the lawyer’s manner underwent a lightning 
change. His big face lost its jovial look and the bushy 
eyebrows contracted to sinister juts on his puckered brow, 
as the cold eyes beneath them probed the man before him. 

“ Well, Jacobs — or whatever your name happens to be 
now — what are you doing here? ” he asked. 


268 


A SON OF COURAGE 


Hinter, with an effort, shook off his first cringing fear. 
“ Supposing I tell you that it’s none of your business, Mr. 
Maddoc,” he said, with a poor attempt at bluff. “ I am 
not under your jurisdiction here. ’ ’ 

“ Oh, is that so? Well, my smooth friend, you’re liable 
to learn that my jurisdiction extends further than you 
think. Now see here, Jaeobs. You know — and I know — 
that I have enough on you already to put you away where 
you’ll do little harm for several years to come. Do you 
want me to do it? ” 

“ No.” The man’s answer was nothing more than a 
spiritless murmur. Maddoc, he knew, had his record and 
had spoken truly when he said he had the goods on him. 
“ No,” he repeated with a shudder. 

“ Then come clean, Jacobs. Now then, what’s your 
game? ” 

“ I came here after you drove me from the Pennsyl- 
vania oil fields,” said the other, realizing the uselessness 
of lying. 

“ Why? ” 

“To prospect; to look for a new field. I figured that 
the Pennsylvania vein would come out about here and 
extend northward.” 

‘ ‘ Sounds reasonable. And you still think so, eh ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Is that your well with the jail- wall about it, yonder? ” 

‘ ‘ No, I bored it but it belongs to Pennsylvania Scroggie, 
the man whom you helped defeat the Southern lease ring. ’ ’ 

If Maddoc was surprised, he did not show it. “ You 
struck oil, I see, Jacobs.” 

“ Yes, about an eight-a-day well.” 

“ Deep? ” 

“ No, surface.” 


MK. H1NTER MAKES A CONFESSION 269 


“ And Scroggie — does he know your record? ” 

“ Certainly not. Oh for God’s sake stop probing me 
this way. I’m willing to tell all there is to tell.” 

“ That suits me, Jacobs. Go on.” 

“ As I say, I came here to prospect. I found plenty of 
surface evidence of oil and gas but without capital I was 
helpless. I learned that a thousand-acre tract of woods, 
rich in oil indications, was owned by Pennsylvania Scroggie. 
I knew that he was a hog and that if I showed my hand 
too clearly he would kick me under and go it alone. 
Through a friend who owned a lake schooner I made 
Scroggie a proposition. I guaranteed to show him a virgin 
oil territory and operate his rigs for a certain percentage 
of the output. This he agreed to. Then he came and when 
he found that the vein lay on his own land he was furious 
and tried to break the contract. 

“ I had anticipated his doing something like this and 
had provided against it. Old man Scroggie, the original 
owner of this land, had left a will, bequeathing all he 
owned to a young man of this district, Stanhope by name. 
Scroggie, I knew, was afraid of the will coming to light 
and I worked on this fear. It was known throughout 
this community that the one friend old Scroggie had 
trusted was Spencer, the store-keeper, who, having quar- 
reled with the elder Stanhope over a survey of property, 
held a secret grudge against his son, Frank.” 

“ And,” said the lawyer as Jacobs paused to wipe his 
beaded brow, “ you thought the will lay in Spencer’s safe, 
and that he was holding it away because of petty malice? ” 

“ Exactly.” 

“ And knowing that in spite of his many short-comings 
Pennsylvania Scroggie wouldn’t deliberately rob young 
Stanhope of the property, providing he knew for sure that 


270 


A SON OP COURAGE 


his uncle had made the young man his heir, you made up 
your mind to blow Spencer’s safe and get hold of the will 
yourself — supposing it was there, and so make sure of 
your own little rake-off.’ ’ 

Jacobs gazed at the lawyer wonderingly. “ How did 
you know? ” he stammered. 

“ I know, Jacobs, that you and your henchmen, Tom 
Standish and Jack Blake, robbed Twin Oaks store and 
blew the safe; also that you were disappointed. There 
was no will there. Where you made your big mistake, my 
friend, was in misjudging Pennsylvania Scroggie. For 
instance, when you lied to him and told him that you had 
found the will, and threatened to turn it over to the right- 
ful heir, providing he did not give you a clear deed to 
Lost Man’s Swamp — what did he say to you? ” 

The question stung the other as a leather lash stings 
quivering flesh. 

“ What did he say to you? ” repeated the lawyer, and 
the wretched man on the rack answered hopelessly: “ He 
told me that if I didn’t give the will up to Stanhope he 
would have me arrested and sent to the pen.” 

A little smile curled the corners of Maddoc’s stern 
mouth. “ Well, that’s Pennsylvania Scroggie,” he said, 
as though to himself. “ Hard, bull-headed and a sharper 
in every legitimate sense but square as they make ’em. 
And you,” he asked, pointedly, “ what did you do? ” 

“ Of course I had to own up that I had lied. He had 
me down on my knees all right, but I was valuable to him 
right then. We had started boring on his land. He said 
that he would give me another chance but that I would 
have to keep honest.” 

The man who had the reputation of being able to read 
criminals unerringly glanced keenly at the man’s face. 


MR. HINTER MAKES A CONFESSION 271 


“ And you’ve found the condition too difficult; isn’t 
that so? ” he asked. 

* ‘ No, Mr. Maddoc, as God is my witness, I was keeping 
honest and intended to go on.” Jacobs had drawn his 
drooping form erect, and now spoke with a certain dignity. 

Maddoc was silent for a moment. Then his square chin 
shot forward. 

“ Jacobs,” he said, crisply, “I’ll give you twenty-four 
hours in which to lose yourself. You can’t stay here.” 

Something like a sigh escaped the man who listened to 
this edict. He took a lagging step or two forward. 

“ Wait,” said the lawyer. “ Tell me, Jacobs, is there 
anything in this world you care for outside of yourself 
and your ambition to climb to fortune over the necks of 
others? I’m curious to know.” 

“ Yes,” answered the other, without hesitation. “ There 
is something ; there are dogs and children. ’ ’ 

“ Dogs and children,” repeated the lawyer. “ Dogs and 
children.” He stood looking away through the failing 
light to where a strip of mauve-lined sky peeked through 
the heavy tissue of cloud. 

“ And what do dogs and children think of you? ” he 
asked, abruptly. 

“ Both trust me,” said Jacobs simply and Maddoc knew 
that he spoke the truth. He strode across and put his 
hands on the shoulders of the man from whom he had 
wrung confession. 

“ Listen! ” he said harshly. “You know me and you 
know I don’t often give a man like you more than a sec- 
ond chance. You have had your second chance and failed. 
But see here, I’m not infallible. If dogs and children 
trust you there must be some good in you, and by George ! 

I ’m going to do something which is either going to prove 


272 


A SON OF COURAGE 


the biggest piece of damn foolishness or the biggest coup 
1 have ever pulled off in my life. I’m going to take my 
grip from your throat, Jacobs, and leave you to the dogs 
and the children. 

“Now, here’s some news for you. The will has been 
found and Frank Stanhope is heir to the Scroggie forest- 
lands. But if there is oil here — and there is — both you 
and Pennsylvania Scroggie will be needed. I have no 
doubt but a satisfactory arrangement on a share producing 
plan can be made with the owner of the land. I’ll see 
Pennsylvania Scroggie tonight and he’ll do what I ask. I 
pulled him out of a rather tight hole and I guess he won’t 
have forgotten. Come over to Stanhope’s cottage in the 
morning. Now remember what the children and dogs 
expect of you, my friend; good-bye until tomorrow.” 

He smiled and held out his hand. The other man took 
it dazedly, then slowly and with head lifted towards the 
darkening skies, he passed down the road. 


CHAPTER XXVI 


A GOLDEN WEDDING GIFT 

Bad news travels fast but good news wings its way quite 
as speedily. Life teaches the human heart to accept the 
one bravely and to laugh happily with the other, for after 
all life is just a ringing note that sounds through and 
above the eternal weaving of God’s shuttle — at times 
clear, reaching to the highest stars ; at other times a minor 
wail of pain. But the weaving goes on, drab threads 
mingling with the brighter ones; and so the heart learns 
to withstand, and better still to hope. It may be, when 
the shuttle runs slower and the fabrie is all but woven, if 
the weaver is brave and strong he is able to decipher the 
riddle of it all. “ If you would experience happiness, find 
it in the happiness of others.” 

Now the unrest and uncertainty which had overshadowed 
Scotia for months had been miraculously lifted and in its 
place was rest and certainty. Sorrow and pity for the 
man who had been stricken with blindness gave place to 
joy and congratulation. Swifter-winged than the harb- 
inger of sorrow, which sometimes falters in its flight as 
though loath to cause a jarring note deep within God’s 
harmony, flashed the joyful news that Frank Stanhope 
had come into his inheritance and would see again. For 
a week following the wonderful news the people of the 
Settlement did little else than discuss it together. Man, 
woman and child they came to the vine-covered cottage to 
tell Stanhope they were glad. 

Pennsylvania Scroggie had been one of the first to offer 
273 


274 


A SON OF COURAGE 


his congratulations. “ Young man,” he said to Stanhope, 
“I’m some rough on the outside but I reckon I’m all 
right inside. You’ve got your sight back and you’ve got, 
in this fine piece of land my old uncle left you, what 
promises to be a real oil field. Hinter and I are going to 
develop it for you, if you’ve no objections. And you’ve 
got a whole lot more than that,” glancing at Erie, who 
stood near. And Stanhope, sensing the sterling worth of 
the man, shook hands gladly. 

Lawyer Maddoc and Doctor Cavinalt had gone back to 
Cleveland, promising to return every fall so long as their 
welcome held out and Billy w T as there to guide them about 
and save their lives, if necessary. 

Old Harry O’Dule’s dream was about to be realized, 
Stanhope had assured him that he would see to it that he 
should play his whistle beneath Ireland’s skies before 
another autumn dawned. 

It was a world of silence, a world bathe^ in golden haze, 
that Stanhope gazed upon with the restoration of his 
sight. A long time his eyes dwelt upon the vista before 
him, with its naked trees piercing the mauve-line of 
morning mist shimmering above the yellow wood-smoke. 
The girl beside him knew from the tightening hand on hers 
and the awe that paled his quivering face that the silence 
spoke a thankfulness which mere words could never 
express. So she waited, and after a long time ho turned 
slowly and holding her at arm’s length, smiled down into 
her eyes. 

“ A nd you, too,” he whispered. “ With all this, I have 
you, too.” 

“You know that you have always had me, Frank,” she 
said softly. 

“ But more than ever I want you now; more than ever 


A GOLDEN WEDDING GIFT 


275 


I need you. Erie,” he said earnestly, “ are you willing 
to marry me right away — next week? ” 

1 ‘ Oh Frank* — ” she began, but he checked her utter- 
ance with his lips. 

“ The Reverend Reddick is available at any day, any 
hour, Lighthouse girl; he’s conducting revival services in 
the Valley church. It will all be so simple. Won’t you 
say next week? ” 

She gazed into his radiant face with serious eyes. i 1 But 
Frank,” she whispered, “ it may be cold and dismal next 
week, I — I always thought that I should like our wedding 
to be— ” 

Her head went down to hide against his arm. 

“ Go on, Lighthouse girl. You always thought you 
would like our wedding to be — when? ” 

“ On a golden, Indian summer day like this,” she fin- 
ished and closed her eyes as his arms went about her. 

# # * # =» 

“ And ut’s married they were this mornin’, whilst the 
dew still clung to the mosses, and ut’s meself was witness 
to the j’inin’ av two av the tinderest hearts in all the 
wurruld.” Old Harry O’Dule, on his rounds to spread 
the joyful tidings of Frank and Erie’s marriage, had met 
Billy leading a fat bay horse along a sun-streaked forest 
path. 

Billy stared at the old man; then his face broke into a 
grim 11 O Gee! ” he sighed, and sinking on a log, closed 
his eyes. “ 0 Gee! ” he repeated — leaping to his feet 
and throwing his arms about the neck of the bay and 
yelling into that animal’s twitching ear. ‘ * Hear that, you 
Thomas? They’re married, Erie an’ Teacher Stanhope’s 
married! ” 

“ Billy, is ut clane crazy ye’ve gone? ” chided the old 


276 


A SON OF COURAGE 


man, “ that ye’d be afther deafenin’ the poor steed wid 
yer yellin’? Listen now, fer ut’s more I’ll be tellin’ ye.” 

Billy kieked his hat high in air and turned a hand- 
spring. “ Tell me all about it, Harry. You saw ’em 
married, did you ? ’ ’ 

“ Faith and I did,” cried Harry. “ And play ’em a 
weddin’ march on me whistle I did, soft as a spring rain 
and swate a* the very joy they do be feelin’ this day. 
A king he looked, Billy, and his bride a quane, ivery inch 
av her. But no more av your questions now,” he broke 
off, “ fer step along I must, singin’ me thankfulness from 
me whistle, and spakin’ the good tidings to them I mate 
along the way.” 

Billy watched the old man move down the path, the 
wild strains of the Irish tune he was playing falling on 
his ears long after the player had been swallowed up im 
the golden haze. Then he too passed on, bay Thomas 
walking sedately behind. As he rounded a bend he met 
Maurice Keeler and Jim Scroggie, heads close together and 
speaking animatedly. 

“ Ho, Bill!” cried Maurice. 4 ‘ Bringin’ bay Thomas 
up to the stable fer winter, eh? Gee! Jim, look at that 
horse; did you ever see such a change in anythin’ in your 
life? ” 

“ Thomas has sure fattened up,” grinned Jim. ” I 
guess it would puzzle old Johnston to know our hors© now, 
eh, Bffl? ” 

“ You mean your horse, Jim,” corrected Bdlly. 

** No I don’t either; he’s only a third mine. One third ’tf 
yours and the other third’s Maurice ’s.” 

Maurice and Billy stared at him. “ It was your money 
pend fer him,” Billy asserted. 

“ Well, what of it? Maurice found him a soft hidm’ 


A GOLDEN WEDDING GIFT 


277 


place and good pasture on his Dad’s farm, didn’t he? ” 

“ Sure, but then — ” 

“ And it’s you who’s goin’ to see that he gets cared for 
all winter, ain’t it? ” 

“ You bet it is,” cried Billy. 

4 * Well then, I claim he’s a company horse an’ you an’ 
me an’ Maurice is that company. Now, that’s settled, let 
me tdl you what Maurice and me was talkin’ about when 
you met us.” 

Billy unsnapped the tie-strap from Thomas’ halter so 
that he might crop the wayside grass without hindrance 
and sat down on a log opposite the one occupied by his 
friends. 

Jim nudged Maurice but Maurioe shook his head. 
“ You tdl him,” he said. 

1 1 Bill, ’ ’ Jim cried eagerly. ‘ ‘ I got a bit of news for 
you that’ll make you want to stand on your head and kick 
splinters off the trees.” 

Billy grinned. “ An’ I got a piece of news fer you 
fellers, too,” he returned. “ But go on, your news first, 
Jim.” 

“ Teacher Stanhope has made over a deed of Lost Man’s 
Swamp to you, Bill,” said Jim. “ I heard Dad telling 
Mr. Hinter all about it. Dad was there when Lawyer 
Maddoc drew up the deed — Maurice, you crazy hyena, 
will you keep quiet? ” 

Maurice had rolled backward off the log, the while he 
emitted cries that would have done a scalp-hunting Indian 
credit. “ Three cheers fer Bill! ” he yelled. 4 4 He dis- 
covered Lost Man’s Swamp oil field. Trigger Finger Tim 
ain’t got nuthin’ on our Bill.” 

Billy was standing up now, his perplexed face turned 
questioningly on his chums. 


278 


A SON OF COURAGE 


“ That’s right, Bill,” cried Jim. “You really did dis- 
cover it, you know. Hinter said he was the only one who 
knew the oil was there until you rafted out to the ponds 
and saw the oil-bubbles breakin’ on ’em. He says that a 
fortune likely lies there, so you see — ” 

“ An’ Teacher Stanhope, he deeded the swamp to me,” 
said Billy dazedly. He got up from the log and squared 
his shoulders. “ Well,” he spoke, “ that was mighty good 
of him, but I ain’t wantin’ that swamp.” 

“ But Bill,” urged Jim, “ the oil they’ve found there’ll 
make you rich. ’ ’ 

Billy shook his head. “ I’m as rich as I ever want ’a be 
right now, Jim.” 

“ Look here, Bill,” cried Maurice. “ You don’t want ’a 
hurt Teacher Stanhope’s feelin’s, do you? ” 

Billy glanced at him quickly, a troubled look in his 
eyes. “ N-no,” he said, “ you bet I don’t.” 

“ Then that’s all there is to it; you keep Lost Man, 
that’s what you do.” 

Billy considered. “ I ain’t sayin’ jest what I’ll do,” he 
spoke finally. “ I gotta ask another person’s advice on 
this thing. But if I do take it you, Jim, an’ you, Maurice, 
are goin’ to be my partners in Lost Man same’s you are 
in bay Thomas. Here, Maurice, you take Thomas to our 
stable an’ give him a feed. I gotta go somewhere else.” 
And leaving Jim and Maurice sitting, open-mouthed, Billy 
ducked into the timber. 

Not until he had put some distance between himself and 
his friends did he remember that he had not told them the 
great and- wonderful news that had been imparted to him 
by old Harry. Well, never mind, they would hear it soon. 
Harry would see to that. He turned into a path that 
strayed far up among clumps of red-gold maples and ochre- 


A GOLDEN WEDDING GIFT 


279 


stained oaks. The whistle of quail sounded from a ridge 
of brown sumachs. Up the hill, across the deep valley, 
where wintergreen berries gleamed like drops of blood 
among the mosses, he passed slowly and on to the beech- 
crowned ridge. 

Here he paused and his searching eyes sought the lower 
sweep of woodland. A clump of tall poplars gleamed 
silvery- white against the dark green of the beeches; far 
down at the end of the sweep the yellow tops of hardy 
willows stood silhouetted against the undying green of 
massed cedars and pines. Billy gazed down upon it all 
and his heart swelled with the deep joy of life, his nerves 
tingled to the tang of the woodland scents. Something 
deep, stirring, mysterious, had come to him. He did not 
know what that something was — it was too vague and 
incomprehensible for definition just yet. 

His arm about the trunk of a tree, he laughed softly, 
as his eyes, sweeping the checker-board of autumn’s 
glories, rested at last on the grove of coniferous trees. 
So that was the haunted grove? That dark, silent, spicy 
bit of isolated loneliness far below was the spot he had so 
feared! But he feared it no longer. She had cured him 
of that. She had said that fear of the supernatural was 
foolish; and of course she was right. 

A fat red-squirrel frisked down a tree close beside him 
and halted, pop-eyed, to gaze upon him. “ I tell you,” 
Billy addressed it gravely, “ it takes a good woman to 
steady a man.” The statement was not of his own crea- 
tion. He had heard it somewhere but he had never under- 
stood its meaning before. It seemed the fitting thing to 
say now and there was nobody to say it to except the 
squirrel. 

A blue-jay and a yellow-hammer flashed by him, side by 


280 


A SON OF COURAGE 


side, racing for the grubbing-fields of the soft woods 
below, their blue and yellow bodies marking rvin. streaks 
against the hazy light. Blue and yellow, truly the most 
wonderful colors of all the colorful world, thought Billy. 
The scene faded and in its place grew up a face with 
blue, laughing eyes and red, smiling lips, above which 
gleamed a halo of spun gold. Then the woodland picture 
swam back before him and the squirrel, which with the 
characteristic patience of its kind had waited to wateh this 
boy who often threw it a nut-kernel, called after him 
chidingly as he dipped down into the valley. 

Billy was still thinking of the only girl when he topped 
the farther ridge and descended into the valley where 
stood the haunted grove. He wondered what she would 
say when he told her the great news he had to tell her. He 
thought he knew. She would put her hand on his arm 
and say: “ Billy, I’m glad.” Well, he was on his way to 
hear her say it. As he entered a clump of cedars he saw 
her. She wore a cloak of crimson; her hat had slipped to 
her shoulders and her hair glowed softly through the 
shadowy half lights. She stood beside old man Scroggie’s 
grave, a great bunch of golden-rod in her arms. 

Billy called and she turned to him with a smile. 

“ Oh, I’m so glad you came, Billy,” she said. “ You 
can help me decorate uncle’s grave.” 

She dropped the yellow blossoms on the mound and they 
went out into the sunshine together and gathered more. 
When they had finished the task they went across to the 
weedy plot in which stood the tumble-down hut. There, 
seated side by side beneath a gnarled wild-apple tree, Billy 
told her all he had to tell her, and heard her say, just as 
he knew she would say, “ Billy, I’m glad.” 

Then between them fell silence, filled with understand- 


A GOLDEN WEDDING GIFT 


281 


ing and contentment and thoughts that ran parallel the 
same long track through future promise. Billy spoke, at 
length: “ He’s goin’ to take the school ag’in. An’ him 
an’ me are goin’ to build that sail-boat we’ve always wanted 
— a big broad-beamed, single sticker that’ll carry all of 
us — you, me, teacher, Erie an’ anybody wants to come 
along. Gee l ain’t it great? ” 

The girl nodded. “ And what will you name her? ” she 
asked. Lot© Billy’s cheeks the blood sprang as into his 
heart joy ran riot. 

“ I aim to call her Lou y ” he said hesitatingly. “ That 
is if you don’t mind” 

The golden head was bowed and when it was raised to 
him, he saw a deeper color in the cheeks, a softer glow in 
the eyes. “ Come,” she said softly, “ we must be getting 
back.” 

They crossed the sunflecked grass, hand in hand. As 
they reached the pine grove the girl pointed away above 
the trees. “ Look,” she whispered. 

Billy ’s gaze followed hers. High above the trees a black 
speck came speeding toward them, a speck which grew 
quickly into a bird, a big, black bird, who knew, apparently, 
just where he was going. 

“ It’s Croaker,” Billy whispered. “ Stand right still, 
Lou, an’ we’ll watch an’ find out what his game is.” 

He drew her a little further among the pines and they 
peered out to see Croaker alight on the broken-backed ridge 
pole of the log hut. 

Here, with many low croaks, he proceeded to search his 
surroundings with quick, suspicious eyes, straining for- 
ward to peer closely at scrub or bush, then cunningly 
twisting about suddenly as though hoping to take some 
skulking watcher behind him unawares. 


282 


A SON OF COURAGE 


Finally he seemed satisfied that he was alone. His harsh 
notes became soft guttural cooes. He nodded his big head 
up and down in grave satisfaction, tip-toejng from one end 
of the ridge-pole to the other and chuckling softly to him- 
self. Then suddenly, he vanished from sight. 

“ Where has he gone? ” whispered Lou. 

4 4 Hush,” warned Billy. His heart was pounding. 

The watchers stood with eyes glued to the ridge-pole. 
By and by they saw a black tail-feather obtrude itself from 
a hole just beneath the roof’s gable. A black body fol- 
lowed and Croaker came tiptoeing back along the ridge. 

The girl felt her companion’s hand tighten spasmodic- 
ally on hers. She glanced up to find him staring, wide- 
eyed at the bird. 

‘ 4 Billy!” she whispered, almost forgetting caution in 
her anxiety. “ What is it? ” 

He pointed a shaking finger at Croaker. “ See that 
shiny thing that old rogue has in his bill, Lou ? ” he asked. 
“ What do you ’spose that is? ” 

“ Why, what is it? ” 

“ It’s one of the gold pieces your uncle hid away. Come 
on, now we’ll see that Croaker throw a fit.” 

They stepped out into plain view of the crow, who was 
muttering to the gold-piece which he now held before his 
eyes in one black claw. Croaker lowered his head and 
twisted it from side to side in sheer wonder. He could 
scarcely believe his eyes. Then as Billy stepped forward 
and called him by name his black neck-ruff arose in anger 
and, dropping his prized bit of gold, he poured out such a 
torrent of abuse upon the boy and girl that Lou put her 
fingers in her ears to stop the sound. 

“ He’s awful mad,” grinned Billy. “ He’s been keepin* 
this find to himself fer a long time.” At sound of his 


A GOLDEN WEDDING GIFT 


283 


master's voie^ Croaker paused in his harangue and 
promptly changed his tactics. He swooped down to Billy's 
shoulder and rubbed the top of his glossy head against the 
boy 's eheek, whispering low and lying terms of endearment. 

Lou laughed. “ What’s he up to now, Billy? " 

“ He's tryin’ to coax me away from his treasure,” Billy 
answered. “ Now, jest watch him.” 

“ What you want 'a do, Croaker? ” he asked, stroking 
the bird's neck feathers smooth. 

“ Kawak! ” said Croaker, and jumping to the ground 
he started away, head twisted backward toward the boy and 
girl, coaxing sounds pouring from his half open beak. 

‘ ‘ No, sir, ” cried Billy. 4 ‘ You don’t fool me ag ’in. I’m 
goin’ to climb up there an’ see jest how much gold is hid 
in that hole under the gable.” 

Croaker watched him reach for a chink in the logs and 
raise himself toward the treasure house. Then he became 
silent and sat huddled up, wings drooping discontentedly, 
his whole aspect one of utter despair. 

Lou, bending to caress him, heard Billy give an exclama- 
tion, and ran forward. “ It’s here, Lou,” he cried excit- 
edly, “ a tin box an’ a shot-bag full of gold in a hollered- 
out log. The bag has been ripped open by Croaker. I’ll 
have to go inside to get the box out.” 

He dropped to the sward and stepped through an 
unglazed window into the hut. Nailed to one end was a 
crude ladder. Billy climbed the ladder and peered closely 
at the log which held the money. To all appearances it 
was exactly like its fellows, no door, no latch to be seen. 
And still, he reasoned, there must be an opening of some 
kind there. He lit a match and held it close to the log. 
Then he whistled. What he had mistaken for a pine knot 
was a small button fixed, as he saw now, in a tiny groove. 


284 


A SON OF COURAGE 


He moved the button and a small section of the log fell, 
spraying him with musty dust. 

Another moment and he was outside beside Lou, bag 
and box in his arms. Croaker was nowhere to be seen; 
neither was the gold piece which he had dropped in his 
amazement at sight of Billy and Lou. 

“ He went back and got it,” said the girl, in answer 
to Billy’s look of amazement. “And, Billy, he flew away 
in an awful grouch.” 

“ Oh, he’ll soon get over it,” laughed Billy. “ Well 
find him waitin’ fer us farther on.” 

They crossed the lot and went through the pines to the 
sunny open. There, on a mossy knoll, Lou spread her cloak, 
and Billy poured the gold from bag and box upon it. 

Lou started to count the money. Billy sat back, watch- 
ing her. “Yes, sir,” he mused, “it certainly takes a 
good woman to steady a man.” For ten glorious minutes 
he built air castles and dreamed dreams. 

“ Two thousand nine hundred and forty dollars,” Lou 
announced, and Billy jumped up. 

“ Whew! ” he whistled, “an’ all gold, too. The three 
pieces that Croaker took make the even three thousand.” 

They placed the money back in the box and bag. Then 
Billy, picking up the treasure, spoke gently. 

“ It’ll make ’em a grand weddin’ gift, Lou.” 

“ Yes,” she answered, “ a grand wedding gift, Billy.” 

In silence they passed on through the upland gowned 
in hazy, golden spray. At the height of land they paused 
to look down across the sweeping country below them. 
Then blue eyes sought grey and hand in hand, with a new 
glad vista of life opening before them, they went on into 
the valley. 


THE END. 




LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 



